hands

When I imagine you sitting there, (which I do, I do imagine that), your hands are cupping each other underneath the table while he speaks. Your shoulders are a bit hunched because the actual weight of the moment weighs on you. You are Atlas himself. And when he speaks to you the corners of his lips tighten because he is nervous in a way you cannot quite grasp through your anger and your whiskey and the mess. You try to sort through his words, and worse, through his questions. While you would like to be brief, and think constantly of being brief, everything is anything but. A sentence or two get lost while you battle off images of him holding and grasping on everything it is that you love. And your two hands under the table, now grip each other, white knuckled and veins risen like rivers.

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