It is his hands,
Not my hands
She reaches for
Each morning,
When she wakes
Steady hands
The bring her comfort
And joy,
Missed when away
When she can’t feel
Them on her,
When he is absent
From her bed.
It is his hands,
not my hands,
she aches
to explore her,
and I, ache
imagining
where those hands go,
what they find,
the shudder of joy,
when they find the void
it is his hands
not my hands,
she needs,
those moments
when darkness
rises around her,
inside her,
the wraith of
pre dawn.
Haunting her,
The dark angel
Against which
Only his hands
Can keep her safe.
No comments:
Post a Comment