A Loose Grip

The cold spread quick,

up my arm, a shock.

His palm, a loose slick

thing, like a broken lock.

No firmness met mine,

just soft give, a damp heat.

He smiled, a flat line,

and I felt my own feet

wanted to turn, to flee.

It spoke before he did,

what he wanted to be

or what he'd always hid.

A tremor, not quite fear,

but a quick, cold read.

He stood too close, too near,

and planted a doubt's seed.