His Hands

They stretch long and boney. They’re rough from years of hard work and yellow form disease.

The white and brown cancer stick sitting in his palm as he reaches for an instigator: the lighter.

He is a small woodland creature running onto a highway, galloping toward death.

Why do you keep repeating actions that will kill you in the end?

It hurts to see you this way
Cribbled, broken, fragile

I wish I could stop you but you have made up your mind.

So I hold your hand while I still have it to hold.