Your hands look soft, like the formation of a memory
Slowly molding it
Wet clay that will crystallize to look fondly upon

"And with remorse," she atoned "With bitterness"

"Yes," I reckoned
But your eyes could never manufacture such a memory

"How do you know?"
She looked at her hands, small on her lap

"Because they are beautiful."

She smiled

She was already knitting a keepsake memory