The New Hand

The window glass, smudged with rain,

reflected me, but I didn't see.

Just their table, a familiar pain,

she laughed, head thrown back, so free.

His hand, then, light on her wrist,

a casual thing, no thought to conceal.

A small, bony curve, softly kissed

by fingers I knew, how they feel.

It wasn't a grab, no desperate hold,

just a knowing, a comfort, a simple right.

A story I heard, but was never told,

burning so clear in the coffee shop light.

And I stood there, watching the claim,

like it was always meant to be this way.