Is it wrong to crave the hands
That no longer desire
The warmth of mine?

Despite the shame, guilt and tears
I can recall the texture of that skin;
Unkempt and rigid.

Street lights in the summer;
My favourite place in the city,
Strengthened by the grip between 10 fingers.

Turns out those hands had bigger plans;
A craving to explore and discover,
With new eyes and a deeper soul.

Left mine to wallow in self-pity,
Getting flustered upon failing
To pluck aged guitar strings adequately.

Sometimes I like to think
That the shakiness my hands feel
Is just my fingers shivering, naked and cold, without yours.