frail hands before me
the cold touch of spasmodic impulses
the purple and black reaction
of the dying crescendo.
holding your hands marks the cold flesh:
loss of the warm bath of blood,
the viscous nutrients starve the sensation
burning the finger-tips away as the wick of a flame.
the love embrace of intertwined digits
replaced by the desquamations disfiguring mark
masking the beauty of tactile intimacy.
~ j. allen
