He wanted to hold her hand
but his hands shook with
the memories of his childhood.
The musty room, clouded
with the sweet stink cigar smoke.
His father who stank of acrid alcohol
And a voice that rumbled like thunder.
The crack of the belt across his skin.

She wanted to hold his hand
but her hands shook with
the all too recent past.
The man who claimed to love her
but dragged her down the stairs by her hair
if she wouldn't lie with him or play housewife.
His bitter breath on her neck,
and the bruises he left on her skin.

Shaking hands, various pasts.
Maybe if both our hands shake,
We won't notice our own pain.