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How strange his hand appears,

a map of veins and tendons,

calloused, careful, hovering

as if afraid to touch

what he’d already ruined.

But there on the fourth it lies —

a shadow of what now is gone.

A band of raw skin, bare,

like a whisper ripped from the mouth.

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I stared too long.

How could I have missed it?

The truth that he carried —

a ghost of gold, a phantom of weight,

a promise shed like skin of a serpent.

The air between us thickens,

with words left unsaid.

He smiles, weak,

and my feet step back —

beneath, the ground has shifted.