The first
last time I felt your hands
on mine was before the heat
broke and autumn exploded
in front of me.
Beneath
the warm glow
of our birthdays I gave you
a book—a warm touch,
our hands meeting briefly,
passing quickly through
a flame like children’s do
before the wick burns
through.
The frost
that came later that week
whispered to me
in my troubled sleep,
soft and extinguishing,
the candle’s gone out.
~Rory Finnegan
last time I felt your hands
on mine was before the heat
broke and autumn exploded
in front of me.
Beneath
the warm glow
of our birthdays I gave you
a book—a warm touch,
our hands meeting briefly,
passing quickly through
a flame like children’s do
before the wick burns
through.
The frost
that came later that week
whispered to me
in my troubled sleep,
soft and extinguishing,
the candle’s gone out.
~Rory Finnegan