The Hand's Hesitation

I reached for water,

its cold sweat on the glass.

My hand paused,

just a flicker,

a half-open claw

before it closed around the curve.

Like it used to,

back when the line went dead

after another argument,

the receiver heavy,

my fingers slow to let go.

It’s a ghost,

that brief hesitation,

a memory of holding on too tight

to something already gone,

my palm still printing

that empty shape.