Hands Held In Kind
My hands, showing each moment spent of breath and age,
recognize you without sight.
An extension of my heart, they carry beaten blood
with only a skin drum between us
matching the rhythm of my pulse with yours
and speeding to your touch.
Night cannot calm them
The sun sugar warms them
but only to depths of the skin.
But you, mirror to my soul's ignition,
catch me in the recognition of touch
and hold on to me, as if the world would spin me off in haste.
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