End Of Holding On

Your hand ever so reluctantly
slipped away from mine.

With nothing to hold,
my hand is empty.
Just a piece of flesh and bones.

My palm tingles even now.
A lasting imprint of your hand
-or more truthfully, a scar that blazes.

In just a few days, I had memorized
the map of your hand.

Every callous,
Every curve
Every crease,
Every criss and
Every cross.

Now I’m looking at the back window
of this suffocating van.

You’re smiling and laughing
as you walk away,
without my hand.

Nothing to cling on
but the burden of books.

Nothing to do but move on
to the distant fumes of chalk dust.

Nothing to see
but pages and pages of endless text.

Realize that books slip, that
chalk dust burns my nose,

and that my hands remain vacant,
until I feel the reawakening
of that blazing scar.