I remember summer days spent
Lounging around in your den
Laughing and talking and smiling.
And you would reach for my hand
I’d always pull back, ashamed
Of the imperfections of it.
But you had wiped away insecurity
And grasped it tightly in yours,
Ignoring my pleas of protest
And telling me I was perfect.

But your hand had grown so cold lately,
Like a corpse, but still I held fast.
I couldn’t feel it turning into bone,
Thin enough to slip through the cracks.
I couldn’t tell the difference
Between the cold of your hand
And the cold of its absence,
I had become so accustomed to it.

It took me awhile to notice the change,
When, at the end of our journey,
I finally turned around
To find you weren’t following me.
And, in your place,
Was a trail of decayed love.