But I lied.                            They don't.
Her hands are very small,
So small as to grasp a thousand
TINY WORLDS

While mine are too big,
So big as to grow myself into this singular lonely
DEMANDING one

TOGETHER
Sometimes my fingers slip through and
The too-fast-cars
Chasing the politics
Swaddling the wet rashed babies
Birthed from the awkward ***
The tongue-tied trying
Fall into CONSTRUCTION gaps

We didn't plan our fingerprints.
But what a stupid thing to say.