My hands are small and cold, but not the most
fragile part of me. You'd already found that, tucked
beneath my tongue; you slid it free
and slipped it into your pocket. Not unkindly;

but I am a girl who pushes, and when
I pushed you, it was with both hands. Small or not.
I made a wound. And I couldn't bear it.

I begged you back.

You lay your head on my knee,
and you were gentle. You smiled at me,
held up that piece. Let it catch the light.
(It was pretty -- and is that word undervalued?
At the time, it didn't matter.)

I thought, your hands
are so much bigger than mine.

And --

They clenched.
I watched the carpet cloud
under dust that was me
just a second ago.

This was almost a happy ending.