Such were our soft hands. 

We thought we spoke a new language 

Of skin – untarnished, a sweet sweat 

When our tongues touched 

And our fingers found their old purpose  

Sprawling out a blanket upon the beach 

Where the sun (or was it the sand?) 

Burned the soles of feet. Our love’s 

Stern arm, heavy as tenderness. —— 

There were specks, sand on our lips 

Licking fresh words or wounds 

None knew the difference, but they slipped, 

Travelled unscathed. 

The embrace welcomed, encouraged 

As if we were simply heat. 

---

Such are our hardened hands. 

Unable to speak the old language. 

Remnants written on paper, a poor papyrus of 

Conjugated verbs, glittering adjectives 

Slippery nouns, tucked between brittle envelopes  

Placed underneath threads and sewing needles 

Inside Mason Jars and old tobacco tins 

On basement shelves, a form of containment 

Where the stairway creaks, the furnace flickers. —— 

So much fire, two feet, just a walk 

To the vague haze of old words or wounds 

None know the difference, but they slip,  

Travel unscathed. 

The embrace welcomed, unwelcomed 

As if we were… simply heat.