ripped jeans and white shirts
forget their union
when the body that joins them
is too concerned with the heart
it holds
and how it went from being a home
to a tomb
but instead of a resurrected messiah
it only holds the ashes

nothing concrete to build
a story around
but evidence of some pain
whose markings taint the air inside

these hands have never felt this useless
to once hold a weight
or an arm
or carry skin
suddenly hold absence
fingers too afraid to close
confirming the inevitable

the stability of this body
once solid on a bed
for two
suddenly scared by the extra space
it wants to move to the floor

left in naked existence
these hands can only move across
emptiness for so long
before they can't even
hold worth

the stone that could roll
away and restore faith
covers half of this tomb
enough to forget
there's anything there