poetry

Please

Please do not fold your hands.

Your long nail inches

over your creases with no voice.

Β 

I like your hands, the bones.

Curiosity crawls its way through

my clothes. Your breath drips

off those hands.

Β 

The same hands buried

your goldfish, under the

knuckle small patch

of your lawn, The loam

clung on to the your

hollowing fingers.

Β 

I cannot mistake that

grin, covered by your

flapping hand. I wish

I could hold the intensity

(smoldering in you)

listen to the music.

Β 

I like to watch,

without seeing you slip

on your skin, or knit your

fists together.

Β 

Please do not fold your hands.

Β 

Β 

PhilosopherPoet

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