Handshake

Fingers curl in half, no firm grip—

a pause, a glance dropping down.

The clasp holds a quiet question

wrapped in uneven skin.

Too soft to conquer, too sharp to forget,

a breath trapped between two hands,

which tells the story neither voice will.

The moment lingers,

a shaky language spoken through skin,

measured in seconds that slip

like loose stones from a pocket.

What does it say?

That I’m here but hesitant,

a promise half-formed,

a shadow you can almost hold.