light glittering idly past
thick glass in the shape of my hands; glass,
crawling up past my skin, splintering with pain where
it and i unevenly end and begin
these fingers are sometimes cavities that hardly move--hand,
much the same--empty of themselves and
empty of me, in all of my
shimmering blinding stillness
sometimes i think
sometimes i wonder
if my empty fingers cry out a
possibility of the future of the rest of me
fingers sometimes almost as real as skin,
see my bones bending gently within
web of tendons and nerves, bodies of muscle;
all drowned in my blood
sometimes these fingers move,
and when they do, i move to
cup your cheek in my hand,
try not to wince when you do, as my hand is far too cold for you
other times, when these fingers refuse to take orders from my mind of minds,
you hold my hand in your gloved one (again, i am far too cold)
and you read and sing me to sleep when i begin to cry
because i don’t recall feeling you and i miss what i don’t quite understand
i wish, sometimes, that i was
better
for you--
warm and alive and well and
i miss you, i miss you,
even when you are so close, even when you are so near,
because it’s killing me to have the means
to touch your hand or your face, yet not be able to feel