Hands Like Home

Your hands were never just hands.
They were maps
that knew every road back to me,
even in the dark.

You didn’t hold me like I was fragile
you held me like I was yours,
like the weight of me was something
you’d carry willingly.

When your fingers laced with mine,
I stopped feeling lost.
Every ache,
every restless thought,
fell quiet in that warmth.

Now, when I reach for you,
I find only air.
The bed is colder,
and my palms feel foreign
empty territories
with no place to rest.

I didn’t know
you could lose a home
without ever moving.