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.