It was evening <br />and dinner hadn't started. <br /> <br />Her hands were cold <br />upon the silverware. <br /> <br />Her eyes surveyed <br />the tablecloth, <br />the napkins, <br />the good china. <br /> <br />The night was perfect. <br /> <br />Low lights. <br /> <br />High ceilings. <br /> <br />Cold hands. <br /> <br />She touched his cheek <br />and felt his heat. <br /> <br />She whispered <br />sweet nothings in his ear. <br /> <br />The night was perfect. <br /> <br />Her hands were cold <br />upon the handle <br />of the butterknife. <br />He was still warm.<br /><br />Erica Francis<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/cold-hands/
