and it has a lot less to do with hands than you might think,
long slow movements like brushes on torsos
belly tingles from fingertips that sweep like brooms.
It's got nothing to do with skin,
the friction of your pale shifts on my white sweater
the hint of your moving breath, holding my furtive stares.
It's not about the length of legs,
running long down mine, matched by inches
deepened with denim creases and hooked inside my knee.
No, it's what lies just beneath your touch,
that your hand on my arm means you hold me like dreams
that your movement next to me is the deepening grain into my soil
that your head on my shoulder is a look that says,
"this will not be the last time I am here
and every emptiness to follow will just be a placeholder
until hands return hands to skin both sacred and familiar."
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