they're old.
she pulls at her loose skin quizzically,
pondering the blotched olive crests
like toasted meringue
that fall slowly, but never completely.
then, just as slowly, her eyes fall to my hands
pink and iridescent, freckled and slender
angled and extended near hers.
now, those are young hands.
then back to her own,
funny how that happens.
i wait for something eloquent or profound
to say, or even something funny.
but, nothing could be simpler.
her hands are old.
my hands are not,
well, not to her.
funny, i thought.
my hands look so old.
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