Atop the table,

Long wrists dotted with freckles and symbols of living,

Lie flat,

Spindly fingers intertwined,

My grandmother would say ‘like a piano players’.

As soft skin of a palm lies delicately on top of a set of knuckles,

The round fingernail of a forefinger picks at the rough hips of a thumb.

Raw, ripped skin is exposed,

Hot and sour,

Like lemon juice was running through it.

Disappearing into soft hair,

Moving from the root to the tip,

And emerging the other side,

To take up it’s home on a leaning cheek.

Hands soft from a keyboard,

Un held,

Un gloved,

The wrath of winter holding off,

Maybe just for another week.

Imy Brighty-Potts