I don’t know why
I need to see her hands
the ring or rings
she sometimes wears or doesn’t,
nails clear or polished,
the way her hands move,
a secondary message
she sends while she talked or stands,
and I wonder
if after all this time,
if they are soft or
firm
as the haze of time
erase such things from memory
the scent of her hair or her perfume,
the taste of her
lips,
the feel of her face,
cheek to cheek,
all lost in the remoteness
by which we now live our lives.
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