Hands.

[ysobelle]

At the concert last night, there was an image in my mind: a slice of a moment.


I sat on one bed, he on the other. I couldn't look at his face, so I looked at his hands. His arms rested on his knees as he leaned forward, head bent. His cuffs were rolled back, his skin very tan, and I studied the angle of his wrists and the steeple of his fingers. They were closed, pushing away like two fenders on an old steam train. My own hands were open, palms up, empty.

There was so much to say, but we'd run out of things to talk about. It was beautiful, it meant more than anyone could express, it was everything, and it was nothing. It was cold, and too hot. It was beautiful, and it was cruel, and it'll always be in me.



And that's an Over the Rhine show.

Comments

[irishcoyote.livejournal.com]

Sounds like.