Your Hand

Fri, 28 Mar 2025 00:00:00 +0000

One side of your body is already asleep.
Your hand, like a gift, remains beside me.
The day's travel has left it tired;
it leans against the gently trembling cushion.

Your hand speaks softly in your place.
Its fingers curl slightly, then open,
like your lips, parting and closing
with each breath.

Your hand is one size smaller than mine.
I lift it and place it in my own.
My hand becomes your glove.*

Someone Writing poems

Your Hand