Her Hands

It's warm, but there she is

In the corner trying to warm herself.

It's another summer night,

One that looms softly

Until you fall into dream's lap.

​I see her wrapped in a shawl,

Still distant.

Face and hands pale,

With little hint of blood in them,

Her breath turning to fog.

​I kneel down, as I whisper,

"It's okay, dear."

Her hands trembling,

Eyes exhausted,

Rough hair covering her face.

​My hands move,

And recoil from the coldness in hers,

Then softly my fingers find themselves

Greeting her hesitant ones,

Her small, frail ones.

​I can feel her hands calming down.

Mine accepting, holding her frozen ones firmly.

I feel their twitches, their coldness seeping in,

Slowly melting away.

Shimmers of life dropping down from her eyes.

​Minutes pass by, hand in hand, sitting across from each other.

Small glances and tired smiles are all she passes.

In this silence, I can feel her heart pumping away.

As I move my hands to grip hers more,

I see my fingerprints slowly etching themselves in hers.

Her breath steadier now.

​It was a long, slow night.

She would tell a little, then think a lot, only to resume.

All the while, mine caressed hers just as softly as her voice.

I didn't understand a word,

But I listened to it all.

A.V