glowing under fluorescent light, end of shift, day emerging from night, fingers bent gently at the edges of a book, i should take a photo to remember, but iβll settle just to look at the wrinkles of my knuckles, always had a thing for hands, callouses and broken skin can tell you a lot on who someone is, where theyβre going, where theyβve been
i wonder what my hands portray, (although i do not care) in this light, on my thigh, they remind me of a simpler time: gripping my motherβs fingers, watching her stir a ***, or a cigarette held between; but i reminisce quietly, for my mother i am not.