Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jan 2020
Hands are the body's warm greeting
they direct and show and tell
I watch his
as they turn the pages very well

I'm laying down
head on his lap
no sight of his head, nor his torso
I'm turned away and there's a ****** gap

Projecting unfocused black and white images
on the wall of my bedroom
a caress, murmuring, a conversation
and he'll be gone soon

His hands motion his emotions
the page-turning incessant
light from the projection and cheap scented candles
highlighting flesh, bone, and incandescence

I am a director of this seeming aesthetic film
the script is unfinished
without delving too deeply into this memorable moment
the self is being diminished
Nahal
Written by
Nahal
56
 
Please log in to view and add comments on poems