By Lily Inskip-Shesnicky


A ghost hand,

a tired hand,

and a woman’s hand

sit in a room.

The ghost hand is dead.

The tired hand is in bed.

It is surrounded by

old memories, and

those who used to love it.

The woman’s hand sits in a chair,

fingernails tapping

at the arm rest.

It can feel the tired hand slipping away.

The woman’s hand wishes that

the tired hand would hurry up

and become a ghost hand.

She feels it would be better that way.


I love you, darling, says the

tired hand. I love you too,

says the woman’s hand. The

ghost hand says nothing.





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