angela felsted
under waning stars
i trusted him.
he had gentle hands,
ones he’d hold to my
head like earmuffs
in the bitter cold.
so much tenderness in
his callused palms.
so much warmth as
he wove his fingers in
mine, led me to a copse
of trees, slid his hands
beneath my coat.
friends,
he called us
in the hushed fervent
voice of a preacher,
clasping my body to
his, front against front,
like a god fearing man
prays palm against palm.
our shoes made
circles in the dying
leaves. our friendship
dying with them.