Violin

Her fingers, delicate as
strings on a violin,
entwine in mine.
Untangling, my thumb
brushes the soft underside
of her wrist, the angry
red spiderweb.

She flinches,
secrets discovered.
Silence,
looking down into
her dove gray orbs,
tears rolling onto our hands.

Hers, fear.
Mine, experience.
1.31.05/12.45pm

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