Hands reaching for mine in the car and in the dark and across the table. Hands always warm, not like eyes or words. I ask you what I am to you and all words fail you. You reach for my hand, press your thumb into my palm as if that is an answer, like I should know that despite your silence and wide eyes, you would choose me if I asked you to. I pull away as you reach forward and try to hold me for a little bit longer. You’re not ready for me to go yet, but you can’t tell me to stay. So your hands are left empty, and warm, but ever so lonely.