Feb 2016
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?
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?
Are you really there? Or is it a ghost in your place that makes me feel so solid?
(Bangalore, India)
Please log in to view and add comments on poems
