You told me once about your mother. Not a lot, but she was a lover. She would squeeze your hand three times to spell out the words and look down for your eyes to know to squeeze back as hard as you could.
Then, you took mine. squeezed it real tight. and we laughed.
Another night, I watched the moonlit dance of my apartment room reds where another woman lie flat, knees up and head.
She took my hand, too to hold on, tight and I thought of you right before She squeezed you to death.