young hands

why are your hands so soft?

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.