Sinew and bone will not show through gentle kid-gloves, nor will they express the sensibility of a brethren savior; the one that gripped tight enough to cling desperately to a shimmering thread of meaning something.
White knuckles clasped over a sweat-smeared steering wheel, clad in worn leather. To brush away the slick and bitter ice that has formed around the corners of life. To punch a proof of existence into surreality. To point out the mistakes borne by a misspoken word.
Weak hands can't hold on to what was not meant to be.
To embrace the child that never was.
To caress a cheek or a cup of coffee—low, fresh, and steaming between the fingers.
Certain polite applause to display approval of a despondent recital.
Pallid palms-up alongside the white stripe of a faded love.
Inspired by Chevelle's song,"Panic-Prone"