The neuropathy scares me,
especially when my hands don’t work in the morning.
Fingers curled like forgotten vines,
stiff with silence,
aching for the warmth of movement.
I wait. I will them to wake,
to remember the soft press of skin,
the steady weight of a coffee cup,
the simple grace of holding on.
Some days, they listen.
Some days, they don’t.
But even in the numbness,
even in the fear,
I remind myself—I am still here.