Without your hand in mine
My fingers are cold and dead
Your hand clutches my heart
Yet you do not hold my waist
I would push you off if I was smart
Instead I wishfully wait
When you brush your thumb against the palm of my hand,
Do you mean to tell me you love me?
But who am I to decipher such brief touches.
YOU ARE READING
It Could Have Been Gentle - poetry
PoetryPoems about the bits of life that feel unnecessarily sharp. ~ Nails in palms and rock in throat and eyes latched in the ground, I open up in hopes of speech and find a choke of sound, Frantic thought of desperation fly beneath my hair, I don'...
