Take off your hands like a shop window mannequin and give them to me; let me imagine that it’s you sleeping on the other side of the bed.
Your hands and mine.
Let me let you feel the bridge of my nose and run your hands over the scar on my elbow, the mole on my chin to make it yours even when I’m holding you holding me.
Tell me it’ll always be this easy; this gentle; this much led by the me that’s leading you. Let me use your hands to call you so I can use your ******* to tell you that I hate it when you don’t answer.
Make your hands puppet master and let me hold them; as they contort me into however I think they think they want me to be.
And then let them fall into bed with me as I sleep, holding your cold hand in a double bed; painfully aware of the blistering, dry burn of always being alone.
Something I wrote for a creative writing portfolio in first year of university.