I stare into the night,
straining to see past the stars,
trying to catch a glimpse of your hands.
My hands reach out,
clean and pale and soft,
the darkness slides between my fingers.
Yours must be worn and tired,
the scarred hands of a sculptor
whose work has faded into obscurity.
The moon floats above,
I huddle in its glow,
a lost child.
I listen to the cold wind,
longing for a voice,
the silence stings my cheeks.
You stand just beyond my grasp —
watching from above.