Winter hands

I burn my hands.
The wet, constantly washed, scarred hands.
With the freezing wind of a city I loathe; as I walk with she who once cared.

It's better here, it doesn't hurt my dry, burnt hands.
It's warmer, it's open, almost holy.
It's mine, more than yours, if yours at all.

Mine entirely.

The skin itches and I remember the day.
Will I truly learn from my mistakes?
The only true time is the now but that doesn't keep me awake at night.
So learn must I.


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