hands.

the tips of my ink-stained fingers never left your lips, even to write one more word on the pages i was filling just for you.

i figured if i imagined every word, even my dreams would be broken. if it was true, then my life would now be a pale joke.

i couldn't write another word because my fingertips were busy. each nerve under each patch of skin was meticulously curious, reaching out really, to feel any breath released from your mouth.

the doctors said that you had felt no pain, that you were gone now, take our time to say some words like goodbye.

i didn't believe them. they had told us so many things with words that required thick, red dictionaries or books you find laying under dust.

and so, i put my hand, the one true unfailing representative that i had, up to your lips. and god help me, i felt nothing.

i was willing to wait, all night and the rest of tomorrow, if necessary. my fingers would not leave your face unless i was positive beyond a doubt that your breath had stopped.

but your eyes were tamped shut, and the machines were no longer pulsing and blinking. someone had turned on the lights in the room, and i stood there unbelieving with such useless hands, hands i make no use of, even now.