i hold her hands while we talk sometimes, as we walk sometimes, as we sit. lithe strawberryfingers rest in my palms as I run my thumb across the ridges behind her knuckles. i smooth the veins that refuse the effort; i trace the vigilant bones beneath. i pretend not to notice the tendons twitch. i forget to listen for a moment (her vocal fry unrelenting). i wonder if plucking the anxious seeds from her cuticles is part of the process, if harvesting her thoughts requires catharsis, if i could suffer instead.