poetry

Please

Please do not fold your hands.

Your long nail inches

over your creases with no voice.

 

I like your hands, the bones.

Curiosity crawls its way through

my clothes. Your breath drips

off those hands.

 

The same hands buried

your goldfish, under the

knuckle small patch

of your lawn, The loam

clung on to the your

hollowing fingers.

 

I cannot mistake that

grin, covered by your

flapping hand. I wish

I could hold the intensity

(smoldering in you)

listen to the music.

 

I like to watch,

without seeing you slip

on your skin, or knit your

fists together.

 

Please do not fold your hands.

 

 

PhilosopherPoet

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