When
Like an idiot,
I glared at the gap between us,
Wondering,
How many hands would take
To cover up the space,
Outstretch to grasp onto yours,
And our fingers fall into an embrace,
Our palms would kiss,
And the love in between,
Would be nothing but the warmth,
Our clasped hands may witness.
Like an imbecile,
I kept thinking of your long, slender
Hands, your tall, slender self,
Would meet my short, stubby hands,
I used to do a lot with.
Artistic.
Painting with acrylics
And gouache to invite vibrance
And permit beauty on canvases,
But sometimes,
Reds used to stain my skin.
My hands seek asylum,
A haven within yours where solace,
Is found, whereas love.
And like a stupid lover,
I fantasized.
I kept thinking all about that,
When we sat across from each other,
With pieces of texts in our hands.
YOU ARE READING
Handwritten | Poetry & Prose
KöltészetH.R #3 IN TOLD | A collection of the told and untold, the hidden and revealed, but everything - all this and everything else - written down in solemn words, in phrases, compiled and collected as poetry and prose.
