Under the Table
Under the table
I miss your hands.
I miss them silently gliding to find mine,
silently weaving your fingers to entwine;
my small hands waiting for your touch
stretching to reach you they don't ask for much.
Under the table
I miss your hands.
When laughter is loud with chaos above
your hands settle on mine, gentle as a dove,
and promise a sanctuary no one else can see
I miss your hands and their strength searching for me.
Under the table
I miss your hands.
I miss the refuge they want me to take,
when your attention demanded by all threatens to break
you have kept a room in your heart where only I can go
and there my hands hold you and through them my love you know.
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