Hold Me

At the end of your hand is The Atlantic
Its Horizon barely touches your hand’s fingertips
Your hand’s half-moons flare with stray diamond dust
Another day is discussed while your hand strokes
weary fingers, your hand’s mocha against my golden roast
Feral yearning cackles from your hand unto my own
Your hand’s weathered skin is mapped with scars
I know not where your hand has been,
but your hand fits perfectly in mine.


3 responses to “Hold Me

  1. Beautiful prose. I love the use of food to describe skin tones. I feel that the detailing matches each other perfectly.

    Adieu, scribbler


    • Thank you so much Scribbler, I am honored by your comment! I’m taking a poetry class at my college this semester, and this is one of the assignments. More poems to come soon, hope you’ll enjoy them. Have a wonderful Sunday <3

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