Dead Hands

My palms are frigid
My pulse's faint
My poor circulation doesn't aid
I am sorrowful
I feel as if I will forever be without
What others have
I suddenly feel warmth entwined my hands.
I know now I am not alone
The blood in my palms begins to run
My hands are on fire
But then the feeling goes absent
I recoil back into my intuitive condition.
The bitter, wretched state

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