You hand just hangs there like a question. I want to reach for it. To fold it into my smaller one. To fold it into the corner of my existence that I have left open, swept clean, for some time now. Waiting for the right one to crawl into it and stay for a while. I can feel the crackle of your skin from here. Without even touching it. That the sound of air leaving your lungs makes my body clench low and wet and tight seems almost unfair. But to understand that you aren't moved by me at all, that too, seems unfair. That when my hand hangs in the air like a question, you don't even understand that your hand is the answer.