from my hand, to yours.
it surprises me a little,
when your hand fits into mine
your steadiness with my clammy palms that try tell a story that hasn’t been told yet.
I quite like it when you hold my hand — like a sacrament that I don’t quite know the name of, like a piece of poetry that I glance at again and again
and it means something more, something less,
and possibly I like it more,
when you look at me like so
when your hand fits into mine
your steadiness with my clammy palms that try tell a story that hasn’t been told yet.
I quite like it when you hold my hand — like a sacrament that I don’t quite know the name of, like a piece of poetry that I glance at again and again
and it means something more, something less,
and possibly I like it more,
when you look at me like so