Our fingers laced in a warm crochet of human flesh,
leaving me able to recall lonely trembling hands,
wrapped around nothing, cracking in the cold air.
and before that, holding a book. One hand thumbing
pages--passing proverbs. The other, spread, across
the spine: pinky and ring working to hold up the bulk,
pointer lying flush against the cross indent in the cover,
trying to figure it out like a braille cell. Still unsuccessful.
The day began hunched in thought over a desk,
light from a computer screen illuminating my chest
pumping so that I may know the answers, forgetting
constantly of their nonexistence. My hands hold my head
from hanging too low. A prop to hold my chin up
so lethargy can wait until nightfall, and I may rest then.
Underneath our soft protective awning my arm looms
over your body and my fingers stretch once more,
and find the woven cradle that holds the only thing
of which I'm sure.
That was sweet. I get the feeling of the loneliness a day can bring. It sounds to me you're describing a solitary person who understands the sensation of touch and feel. Who reflects on the feeling of the objects he touches so often and cherishes the infrequent touch of another human being. An interaction which is as long as he holds his book, so long, he recognizes the feel of its pages, because of the words on them.
ReplyDeleteThank you for the wonderful comment. I often do this because I find touch difficult to write about..so, I force it out. Unfortunately those hands no longer exist.
ReplyDeleteMy favorite. Had to come read it.
ReplyDelete