i was seven

seven was my number
a hand and two more
the hand was so i could hold onto you
and the two fingers were left
to represent us.

seven meant paper and scissors
the blank canvas of our stories
and the tool that won it all
and framed it with its deadly kisses.

but my reach and my grasp
never held the space between away
and how it opened up,
and empty closed the "paper" into "stone."

so now i am two, but not really.

because now the teeth of my two fingers
at a loss
grind and dull themselves
against stone.