It was evening
and dinner hadn't started.

Her hands were cold
upon the silverware.

Her eyes surveyed
the tablecloth,
the napkins,
the good china.

The night was perfect.

Low lights.

High ceilings.

Cold hands.

She touched his cheek
and felt his heat.

She whispered
sweet nothings in his ear.

The night was perfect.

Her hands were cold
upon the handle
of the butterknife.
He was still warm.

Erica Francis

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/cold-hands/