My hands died slowly, with blood vessels surrendering to the chill. They turned grey, yellow, lavender, dusky. Dusky, like the sun had been setting for hours and I only just realized it. Pills made them pink again, but I can’t help but notice you flex your fingers after we shake. A cold grip doesn’t suit you
yet. Gloves on, or else I’ll hold the palm over a light bulb in the bathroom before running it along his spine. Blood thinned out to water, bouquets of nerve
endings wilted. I lost a piece of each pinky promise, the weight of a wedding-band. Flipping the bird at the catcallers carries one joint less meaning, and I have trouble getting to the point. As I brush my thumb along my lover’s wrist, back and forth and back and forth, I only feel the holes.