Here’s the text I wrote with the slight words. The words are slight and so are the events, because of the time of the verbs and the places of the things.

****

They were our hands until this morning at which point the hands ceased. There are a number of instances. They were our hands until this morning at which point the hands were corrugated. They were our hands, until the point at which they ceased.

These have been our hands that write. They have been softer than this, I remember they were softer than this. For the hands of one another there are ways to remember they were softer than this. For the hands of one another there have been ways to remember what they were.

There have been times when there were ways to remember what they have been, these hands. I can remember they were softer than this. At the time I can remember thinking: they are softer than this.

And there is the softness.

Likewise they were not always such. Of course nor was anything, of course. But likewise, nevertheless, likewise they were not always such. Here is the writing, with which our hands write. And once again, here is not the writing it ought be; it is cut off.

I want you to remember how soft my hand felt in yours as I kissed your palm.

There are also instances in which to construe time, and to construe the order in which time is felt. The pictures of you when you were my age and I hadn’t been born are still on my table. There are a number of instances, and I wear some of your clothes. I get you mixed up. You were thus until this morning at which point the hands ceased, and you were never thus, although the question remains.

These are your hands again.

Advertisements