A tangled mess of lines,

creases of joy

and sorrow impressed

into the palm –

they are not


dun and chapped,

as tools

for mending,

they have no


or soft


They brusquely sit, forms


by their harshness, broken

by the years. Yet,

as our fingers entwine –

this austere act of

completion –

they are



(Many thanks to my high school English teacher, Scott Gilbert, who helped edit this piece. I hope you are still well wherever you are.)

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