Years ago, I saw a hand.
The arm was shorter, small,
Unthreatening.
It wasn’t angry.
It wasn’t quick.
It moved slow,
Gentle.
It didn’t hurt.

For the first time,
I believed no one would hurt me anymore.

The moment passed,
together with the hand.
It set with the sun,
and never rose again.

And you—
You remind me of it.

So I’ll wait.
I don’t care how long.
I’ll spend every year
watching seasons fold over my own days,
meaningless or not.

Because I still believe
the hand will return,
as gently as it left.