He was any boy.
Their hands are what I remember,
or not so much their hands,
but my body under their hands.
The way I slid my body under their hands,
as one might slide a note under he door.
Wanting their hands,
the clutching hands of boys
who do not know the weight of their bodies,
or the weight of their words,
so they drop things carelessly,
and bruise,
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