Your dirty palms sat like old carborators in my hands.
I wanted to warm them, clean them, soothe them
from the work that drains the fire from your eyes,
which seems so much grayer than the color spectrum should dare venture.
I wanted to take my charcoal pencils and paintbrushes -- all the artfull hopes I could wish upon you,
and shade your irises deep with Mohagany and Wheat.

I wanted to kiss you, my love.
I wanted to run from this lackluster moment
and bury us in the soil,
beneath the jungle moon and mystery,
to tell stories of the crazy people we've met,
or the exotic places we'd like to travel,
or just to hold your face in my palms,
graze my thumb against your five o'clock shadow--

But there is a time for burrowing into the soil
and for grazing your cheek with my palm,

and I am well aware.


Your dirty palms sat like old stories in my hands,
crumbled and curling yellow at the edges.
You observed them, pensively.
"You know, you're the only person who will ever notice
just how filthy your own hands really are," you said,

and I just wanted you to notice

that I noticed.

But you were distant today,


and I was well aware