He lifted his hand to touch
her face, but she turned her head.
His hands were always dirty,
those long thin fingers reaching out from wide palms,
the skin stretched
almost translucent
over the bones,
every muscle connected by intricate tendons.
They were gentle, the hands
of an artist. They sketched her,
and she was beautiful,
and they were beautiful until
the charcoal smeared.
Lines blurred, image blurred.
Whose mistakes? No matter
how many times he washed them,
his hands would never come clean.
If it weren’t for the dirt,
she might have loved him back.
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