The Skin

The skin on this hand is so new, it is relearning the surface of things. With my right hand I brush over my face to feel soft cotton. With the new hand, the ridges, the new nerves, explore the unrefined aspects of the terrain, it inspects (harshly) the small bumps without the care one would put into a priceless object.

Yes, this skin is strict. In it's newness it will edcuate itself without stop, surprising me at odd moments, like a child discovering the world.

Wet, lashed, bright, flurries of answers float down from the black sky.
"Do you have a secret?" she asked him. Her breath was visible in the night.
"Do you have an answer?" he shot back to her quickly.

There was a pause in the time. It simmered, out of season. The hairs rose on the edge of their becoming.
He was quick to catch her when she started to fall. The wildfire caught her hair, singed the edge of his sweater, but, it was too late. They were lost already in the heat of the storm, they were locked in with no escape. She brushed the flakes off of her shirt and held his hand.

"There are no answers."
"There are no secrets."