People claim that touching
is a comfort. But my palms
would rather perspire
than to pursue the skipping
of sunbeams, or lay numb
than to grasp the slipping
of ice cubes. To twine
my fingers with yours
is to intrude the gaps in between us—
these territories we wish to keep
for ourselves. Clasping our hands
means breathing the same poisoned air.
We trace the lines on our palms
believing they separate your pain
from mine. We loosen our hold,
knowing that grip only makes us
want to slip away. In time,
my palms will grow roofs
of thorns to keep my fold
safe from the arrows
you keep on shooting—instead,
they will bounce
back and pierce your flesh.
