I reach out.
My hands are so full, I can barely taste anymore.
But full of what?
Whatever it is, it's still lacking.
But nothing is received.
No hope.
No breath of fresh air.
Not even a smile.
Disappointment.
That's what fills my hands.
Then I bring them back into my chest.
Where they have been safe for so long.
So long have I reached.
Reaching has become voluntary.
And voluntarily I become what I least wanted.
Wanting only to be happy.
Happiness lies nowhere near my hands.
But near my heart.
Too bad my heart slid from my sleeve to my palm.
Someone better get me to the emergency room quick.
Surgery is necessary.
6/4/08