Palm Read

Your hand.

It was like a wet fish,

cold and limp.

No pressure, just

a fleeting brush,

gone before I even

knew it was there.

Left me with nothing

but the phantom damp

on my palm,

a feeling of something

unsaid, or worse,

something deliberately

held back.

A small thing,

a moment. But it sticks.

Makes me wonder

what else you're

not quite

touching.