Hands

A Poem

Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

your skin runs rough against mine,

all worn edges driven to light friction,

and my fingertips find yours in the dark,

all lines crossing in this space between

what we want and what we can’t have

*

your palm meets mine, pressed

promise to lie and back and forth,

like a pendulum of what this love

should mean for you in the moment —

and what it might mean for me

*

your light touch grounds me,

nails lightly scraping in patterns

of meaning that feels surreal

even as time is running out

in this little would-be charade

*

your hands are more honest

than the words that lay fallen

from your parted lips, scattered

like leaves across my canvas

laid bare before you to explore

*

you leave me, as always, twined

in the hopes of a relationship

that will exist beyond this room —

and I count the seconds till

the door shuts behind you.