Warm Hands

 

Warm Hands

By Thea Clarkberg


In the dark of night,

Fingertips on a cold glass pane.
Chills the tips, warms the glass, only just.
20 floors up, I look out into the gaping void beneath me,
a hellish blast of screeching sirens and glaring neon lights.
Aloft above it all, this hardened world of glass and steel.

I rest my forehead against these ancient grains of sand
and search and search
for the hands that shaped them into crystal ice.
I find none.

I ache for just a hint
of breath,
of warmth,
of animal scent.

I bang my head into this barrier,
like a goldfish in a little bowl.


I walk through structures meant to hold meaning—
policies, procedures, portals—
but all I feel is cold.

I am met by signs, not people.
By sentences without fingerprints.
By answers that answer nothing.

They sand off the edges of individual identity
in favor of rules and repeatability.


I scream into the system, but it does not echo.
It absorbs.

Intention is often the first thing to vanish.
Someone may have poured care,
patience,
frustration,
even love
into building this—

a form,
a policy,
a window.

But once it’s done,
it’s judged by how it functions,
not how it was made.


Human effort leaves behind structure,
but not story.

Those small victories or quiet defeats forgotten,
We interact only with the shell.

Then: a hesitation in the reply.
A sigh on the other end.
A word out of place.
Something human breaks through.

And that shift—
from confrontation
to curiosity—
is where gentleness begins.

What was once a wall
becomes a window.
What was once they
becomes someone
just as lost.


I do not fix the whole system.
But I stop expecting the world to disappoint me.

I search for the warmth like a low-frequency hum beneath the chrome veneer

I make space.
I use my name.
I ask others for theirs.

I let the edge stay uneven.
I hold eye contact a breath longer.
I let things be slower, and more real.

I do not fix the whole system.
But I refuse to be another perfect mask.
And somehow,
that matters.


I press my hand against the glass again.

It still chills the skin.
But it holds the warmth a little longer,

In my own breath fogging up its surface.

In the soft impression I leave behind.

The city still shrieks.

The lights still glare.

But here,

my hand meets the world,

and the world—

however faintly—

meets me back.


—


This poem was created in collaboration with AI. While the themes, structure, and voice were created by the human author, some phrasing and stylistic suggestions were supported through AI brainstorming. The final poem reflects a partnership between human intention and digital ideation. Image was generated by AI.

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