Your hands are as cold as mine. I hardly flinch  I'm 
looking for ways to allude to your vanity. I don't think 
it very kind, when in a pinch, to dig a tomb for the 
still-breathing man to see. In my time away from you I 
built a bridge suspended by hopes of your river-crossing 
ways. These boards I used are tried and true, and but a 
smidgen of the arsenal you're owed within this phase. You 
shiver once upon the marble of the dentist's office 
steps. Your mind wanders; my leg's asleep. I turn your 
face from the dark apartment on floor ten, our fingers 
entwined for the length that some tea would steep. The 
rice and spices lose their heat and go to waste inside of 
their plastic bag and furniture. Neither of us want to 
eat. 'No, not a taste.' Your skiing career, you assure 
me, was amateur. 'Your hands are as cold as mine,' I 
barely note, distracted in study. The contours of your 
face are so precise and so divine. Girl, in your heart, 
will these hands ever find a place? Hey, I hear you 
reluctantly grasp for the words you must say. You look at 
the faces around us but never at mine. You say that you 
can't make a promise  and that's totally fine, 'cause I 
can see where you're at, and undoubtedly... Hey, I hear 
you reluctantly grasp for the words you must say. Your 
eyes, they are shining so bright though you're slow to 
respond; you see just the fear of the present and never 
beyond; so I'll just trace the crease of your palm in the 
silence before you go home.