When I think of him it’s his long fingers I see first. He uses them to cross himself. They’re beautiful. They should be touching me, should be in me, but they’re crossing his chest as he prays for guidance, for purity. I want his long fingers around my small ones, gripped loosely but faithfully. We’d hold each other’s fingers and look into each other’s eyes whenever we needed to pray— pray to each other that this would last like a perfect day at the end of summer, like the end of school before you’re ready to go home. His fingers, bony and exquisite, should be exploring my skin, my face, my hair— but he keeps crossing himself, knowing I’ll ruin him.
Exquisite
