Cold. Hands. Poetry as a tool for grief and healing

Now, cold. Mine and yours.
Your hands, eyes, heart. Cold.
Dead. I held them
and kissed them all.
as I held your cold, dead body.
three times. time dissolved

I pulled your cold hand to my face
the blood staining my cheek
confused
Is it mine? Is it yours?
my heart is bleeding and it won’t stop