HANDS DIPPED IN REMORSE

 I have a theory that my fingers

could spell out your name in my sleep.

My hands haven't known yours in years,

yet when i hear a word that sounds a shade away from your name,

they ache:

like rotting branches grazing up at the canopy:

they hear the north wind and remember

the rhythym they once swayed to.

cursed so crawl, scratch, caress,

to grip railing rust and lie to their wrists

about their colour and their cold.

cursed to hide their halves and have- nots.

pretending to be whole when their palms are bare,

forever chasing the ghost of your touch.

when i hear the pines groaning,

the underbrush buzzing,

my fingers tremble an echo of your name.

I fear that one day i will wake up

to your name screaming across my walls.

inked guilty, those lonely hands

would hold no remorse.