the sieve and the sand

Leaving the wheat with the chaff. This is not your mother’s poetry.

Sometimes I wonder
what my cold fingers feel
like
scraping on your skin
like
ice?
like a strange and
unwelcome touch from
a specter?

Am I a ghost?
yes?
Can I be your ghost
at least?

I just want you to
tell me how
these hands feel
on your skin

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