Hands and Love

Hands are so interesting.
I look at mine now,
and remember what they used to be.

Little, shriveled, four, skinny lines
and an extra sprouting from the insides.

But what they are now are
Skinny lines,
Racing toward something.

My hands won’t stop growing,
The tips just keep going,
toward whatever comes before me.

As I look, admire and judge,
I see a golden fingernail

Long and pointed,

Snake along the wooden bridge of my thumb.

And who did this golden fingernail belong to?

Death himself spooned me,
Death himself continued to stretch from behind me and clasp my hand.

How could Death be so warm and loving?
His breath was hot on my neck,
I won’t deny that I blushed.

But only in that moment,
we were caught in our act.

“It’s purely platonic!” I shouted to my close friend.
But she knew that this wasn’t the first time our paths crossed.

Every time it would feel like an accident,
but I wanted him with all of me.

I wanted to feel him warm me up from the inside.

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