My cuticles split and bleed as if
they had dug a garden without tools,
had clawed their way out of a grave.
Why do I still reach for you?
All I want is one smooth touch,
the stroke of silk, my dry roots
drinking up moisture, plumping,
filling in the lines and ditches.
All I want is to hold something
beautiful, to be full to bursting
with the liquid bliss of rivers,
with the cool smooth of a stone.
What I have instead: a place where
edges curl and blur, a place I feel
in the webs of your fingers, the rose
of your fist. I rub my sandpaper palm
against your door, hope flaking to dust.
