veronica's hands

i remember her hands,

like two old paper bags full of love
i remember how she touched my face
the tears in her eyes;
and mine...
how she lay there dying,
uncomfortable that i should see her in her gown
the smoothness of her flesh exposed.
so dignified before repose...
i remember everyday;
more holes more holes more holes
that tear through skin and probe the woes
but cannot touch the soul;
or so i say to sound sublime
sometimes the heart is not the mind
and words become the empty toll
of ethereal chimes;
emptiness...
what to believe?
i believe that death can take your life
on any given breeze.
and that love is real.
our love was real.
and maybe that is god