The first
last time I felt your hands
on mine was before the heat
broke and autumn exploded
in front of me.
Beneath
the warm glow
of our birthdays I gave you
a book—a warm touch,
our hands meeting briefly,
passing quickly through
a flame like children’s do
before the wick burns
through.
The frost
that came later that week
whispered to me
in my troubled sleep,
soft and extinguishing,
the candle’s gone out.
last time I felt your hands
on mine was before the heat
broke and autumn exploded
in front of me.
Beneath
the warm glow
of our birthdays I gave you
a book—a warm touch,
our hands meeting briefly,
passing quickly through
a flame like children’s do
before the wick burns
through.
The frost
that came later that week
whispered to me
in my troubled sleep,
soft and extinguishing,
the candle’s gone out.
