January 23, 2009
By Thomas Mathieson, Smithtown, NY

My hands are dry.
Cracks all over my knuckles are clearly visible.
And on the coldest of mornings,
Small amounts of blood find its way through.
And then I see her, and I smile.
Because her hands are pale white and clammy.
They are constantly perspiring and very sticky.
We reach out for each other, and wet meets dry, soft meets hard, hot meets cold.
And then her eyes meet mine, and we laugh
Because we know we’re the cure.

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