One Hand

Your hand trailed down my jaw line. You were not speaking. Neither was I. I was staring out the window wafting in a soft wind. We had been fighting and your voice had never sounded so broken the way it groaned like a shrill gate. I had wanted to climb into your lap. I was a child again, but the distance was too great and your expression too stern. You said I was an expert at silence and perhaps I am. Still, your one hand broke through space and time to my isolated planet.