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My palm was still damp from a single blue mug,

when I offered a hand and a half-hearted shrug.

He took it and squeezed with a sandpaper palm,

filling the kitchen with a terrifying calm.

His grip was a mountain, mine was a ghost,

a small, sinking thing on a desolate coast.

I felt every callus, every year he’s been used,

while I stood there dripping and slightly confused.

The heat of his skin is a brand on my bone,

reminding me just how much I’m alone.