Unsafe Hands

The cabinet was open, just a crack,

glass glinting, dust motes in the air.

Grandma's things, never looking back,

a porcelain doll, a vacant stare.

My fingers stretched, a silent reach,

for the smooth, cold curve of its head.

A quiet urge, beyond my speech,

a tiny thing, better left unsaid.

Didn't touch it, not quite,

but the feeling lingered,

of something fragile, something wrong,

a small darkness, finger-tingered.