In words I can no longer repeat, she had said to me,
“Your hands are so rough to hold.” and proceeded to laugh,
So I didn’t take it too hard.
Did she say she liked it in fact? Or commented that it was rather
Odd; I can’t recall, hardly telling apart
This language folded into my memory, since then
Translated by lane-way dreams into another tongue, foreign escapism that bespoke
A single feeling, fleeting now