BeenAThousandPlaces

He held my hand as though it were the last thing he'd ever hold. His knuckles were chalk white, the skin peeled away at the creases, holding his age within wrinkles that reminded me of nothing more than grand canyons. My hands were messy. The definition of uncultured. my nails were chipped, painted black. The backs of my hand would be smooth, if not for the x's sloppily marked in washable marker. We were not the same. He was old. His eyes glistened with unspoken wisdom. His weak arms, still felt strong. I was vulnerable. A china doll wrapped in punk clothes. My fists were strong, but still felt weak. We were tied together by the ironic