Just a Thin Layer

My knuckles were rough, a sandpaper kiss

from the winter wind, a chapped sort of bliss.

I unscrewed the jar, that blue-topped, wide

mouth, dug a finger in, couldn’t hide

the cool, thick feel.

It didn't sink in, not really. Just sat

on top, a clear, slippery fat

that coated everything. A barrier,

a truce between the skin and air,

a temporary peace.

Like some conversations, I suppose,

where nothing truly penetrates. It just goes

on the surface, a sheen.

You feel it there,

a slick, unmoving shield.

It helps, maybe. But you're still underneath.