Hands
Your hands
in my hands
soft yet firm
moving
squeezing
stroking
insistent
demanding.
Speaking a
half-remembered
language
to which
I instantly respond.
Yet I draw back
at a line,
I can not cross.
Lips mouthing
tender regrets
while our hands
keep talking.
I remember clearly
the ring
in your navel,
but the one
in my pocket
held us apart.
Copyright © D.W. Rodgers | Year Posted 2015
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