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The Death of Affection
April 14, 2014
your hands were
like those of death --
your fingers so thin,
curling around mine,
the way vines crawl over
abandoned houses,
and sometimes,
you would squeeze my hand
and your bones
would crush against
mine --
my knuckles were dust
worn down by yours
and I wondered if
I could slip through your grip
like motes of sand
© Jon G., Bethesda, MD
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