I suppose your hands make sense after midnight
when we are too weary to sleep
and our mouths roll on about everything
we stopped thinking about three hours ago.
Hours drift by until even the night
is tired of itself and gives up.

Then, our hands clasp when
you are still awake enough to pretend
not to notice
but too tired to let go.

Then, I think I’ve made a wish,
the kind where your hand is always in mine,
or maybe your heart.
I’ve had too much to drink
and forget if there is a difference
between hands and hearts.