I watch her hands.
They flutter on thoughts,
flit through air,
land on everything,
on nothing.
She’s talking,
but words buzz,
disintegrate through filtered fingers.
Land:
on earring,
face.
Snatch:
at hair,
twist, turn, pull.
Roll: salt shaker,
pepper—clink!
Pale dashes that punctuate her sentences,
leave me grasping,
leave her gasping,
leave life open:
to interpretation.
I see deep meaning in those hands.
And as I walk home,
I notice the frosted grass
crunch
beneath my footsteps,
leaving slight imprints
of pressure and heat.
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