My hands miss the rain
and the pitter patter of hail
December and all it brings
and freckles that don’t wash out.

They miss the dim yellow light
that shone through your teeth
that made them into thieves
filling them with blood
that stole my pulse.

And your eyes like wine
that brought the stars upon them.

My hands can’t think straight anymore
they fumble and cry.
Fingernails bleed,
they cling to one more hour of night
They forget to breathe
starved of air until they crack open
joints swollen and askew
Unable to point

My hands are now stained
with henna and tears
as they itch with longing

August, 2017