Your hands are empty
and it's odd.
You're used to long digits
held in your own
softer than yours
due to soccer
instead of rowing.
You try to fill them
with other things
like pens
and rulers
and notebooks.
None of them are the same
though,
they're not soft skin
between your fingers
thumb running
along your own
patterns
being traced
into your palm
like constellations.
.
You held a girl's hand
once,
but it was different.
While her digits were short
his were long.
Her's smelled of cherry
and lilac,
his retained graphite
and old paper.
Her's stayed limp
in your hand,
his gripped back
tight
and unyielding.
Her's were wet
with sweat
and lotion,
his were dry
to the point that
in the winter
they cracked at the knuckles.
.
You wish you had
those hands
with you now.
That those
cracked knuckles
were against your cheeks
catching your tears
as they fell.
If you want
hard enough
you can feel the ghost
of those fingers
running along your skin
soothing
your breaking heart.