Your fingers caress mine.
Our palms separated by a hair's breadth.
Our hands finally embrace each other.
They write poems to declare their love.
The negative spaces between fingers are filled out with warmth and sunlight and you.
But the hair's breadth is a canyon.
We both know your sunlight isn't tangible.
Are we holding hands?
Or ideas?
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 10:45 AM UTC
Your fingers caress mine.
Our palms separated by a hair's breadth.
Our hands finally embrace each other.
They write poems to declare their love.
The negative spaces between fingers are filled out with warmth and sunlight and you.
But the hair's breadth is a canyon.
We both know your sunlight isn't tangible.
Are we holding hands?
Or ideas?
