Tugging Away

This was some years ago, when we overlapped each other,
When she slipped her fingers in between the bone and the skin of my right hand.
Our nerves braided themselves together, our bones fused, our skin graft.
Joined together we roamed the tiny area we called home, making the locals jealous.
In time, in step, in love.
Inside though, I always wondered about the inevitable pain we'd have to deal with, and alone.
Nearly a half decade went by with us joined at the wrist.
Until all of sudden a constant tugging began.
At first it was manageable, the resistance was there but hardly anything to worry about.
I worried though.
We were being torn apart at the seams.
My skin would burn with pain, as I hoped my nerve endings were the only ones to feel it.
While she slept one night I tinkered with the wiring in our hands. I never wanted her to feel the pain.
We ended up slow dancing for months after, tip toes shuffling around the issue at hand. Our hands.
I recall perfectly the night I lost the top layer of skin off of my right hand.
I packed a car all while I ignored my wounds, being sure to lick hers.
It was some years ago, since we tore our hands apart, ripping the skin, severing the nerves.
Our bones broke, just loud enough to drown out the sound of our hearts breaking in the background. 
The healing process for such an injury has no timeline. I've been dealing with it ever since.
Every so often I'll experience what the medical world calls a ghost limb, but I know what it really is.
When she's lonely she'll grab for anything and each time my right hand feels her tugging away.
I will never be the same again, and I'm positive that I wouldn't have had it any other way.