One Skin

I stroke his hand
loose, transparent folds of skin
barely covering fragile veins
stretching over fingers
still long and beautiful
ending at aristocratic blue-tinged nails.

I place my vibrant hand
next to his,
almost ashamed by the
alive tightness of the skin,
the strength in its colour and control.

We are the same, you and I, I tell him.
Your hand was once like mine
and mine will be like yours tomorrow.
And we both know
that Time is just an illusion.

(c) Anita Vasudeva, Dec. 2004