Fingertips in the Cold

At the stoplight, two strangers reach —

fingers brushing, trembling like thin ice cracking.

The touch lingers, hesitant,

then pulls back, scared of something unseen.

I watch, the ache crawling under my skin,

a hollow stretching wider than the empty bus seat.

The chill bites, and I want

just once to feel the weight of someone

not afraid to hold on,

not quick to pull away.

But my hands stay folded,

frozen in the silence between breaths,

waiting for a touch that might never come.