Hold Me

A poem.

Cerulean Skies

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.

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