TWO--GUNS

your hands reach out to me, soft, so warm and inviting turning cold before my fingers ever reach yours. you hold my hand tightly at first and then your grip loosens and our palms slide away from each other. I am left with cold sweat and unfinished plans in place of where your fingers interlocked with mine imperfectly. Holding myself no longer feels the same thanks to you and your sweaty, cold, lying hands.