i walk home with my elbows hinged out
palms up
facing the sky
my fingers outstretched

i stare at them. i wish that they were not my hands, because these hands are dirty. gritty. black.
they are smoking with invisible ash.

no matter how hard i try to over extend my fingers away

away far away from eachother, the ash will not fall off. it leaves small trails behind me in lazy, untraceable loops.
like dandelions in hiroshima