The cards were almost as old as me.
They were well used.
They were well loved.
They had long ago ceased to be the darling of collectors.
They remained your beloved.
I would slip them between my fingers.
Faded ink still smiling from the paper’s memory.
Edges softened from callused hands.
To feel them was to feel the hands that made them unique.
To feel the hands that felt me.
You shuffled them with smooth and well honed grace.
Slivers of light and time.
Slipping between here and there.
Laying down obedient faces that respond to your command.
Cards telling you as you wished.
I was jealous of them, these cards that knew your hands.
No conflict tore them in two.
No inflamed will to be silently snuffed.
I can not be pocketed so easily, no cabinet can hold me long.
I can not afford the price of your love.
My cards are young, stiff, and mostly unblemished.
I wonder if one day, they’ll be soft in my hands.
I wonder if one day, I won’t be jealous of yours.
I wonder if one day, I’ll have old memories to cherish.
Memories scented solely by my hands.