I Hold the Hand of a Dead Girl

I am tired.
My soles are worn smooth —
parallel to the rutted road.
I move through every crevasse, each memorized,
while my arm extends into a paler one.
It belongs to a familiar small nose —
and big cheeks and long legs and thin hips.

I drag her behind me —
her feet hanging limply to her left.
Heels under layers of frayed bandages
seed violent veins that cling to the backs of her legs.
Her skin —
made of asphalt and gravel,
old cloth and calluses —
peels off in supple white heaps
as it snags a glitch in the floor.

My fingers leave dents in her soft palm.
My steps have gotten more and more cautious—
careful I don’t tread on her loose red hair.
There is a cove of memories —
visions and ideas
that lie beneath her sunken eyes.
Blue lips whisper “Its alright”
under a tuft of dusty breath.
And I drag her with me.