He held my hand today in the most delicate way,     
as if my fingers resembled flower petals and my     
palm reenacted butterfly wings. My hand felt          
fragile in his grip, which mimicked my feelings        
towards him because his heart did not belong           
in the spaces between my touch - his heart                 
belonged in something as light as air; something      
as delicate as cotton. And my heart was tattered      
with thorns, assured to shred his into pieces. All      
the more treacherous, he traced my fingers be           
tween my mittens, and it still felt like fabric -            
contrary to your inevitable static. And that is           
when I knew that even though he did everything    
right, he made it that much worse. As much as he    
tried, my frost-coated lips challenged the warmth    
in his voice, and it wasn't me he needed. It was I      
that needeth not deserve him.

gd