You hand just hangs
there like a question.
I want to reach for it.
To fold it into my smaller one.
To fold it into the corner
of my existence that I have left open,
swept clean,
for some time now.
Waiting for the right one to crawl into it and
stay for a while.
I can feel the crackle of your skin from here. Without
even touching it.
That the sound of air leaving your lungs
makes my body clench low and wet and tight
seems almost unfair.
But to understand
that you aren't moved
by me
at all,
that too,
seems unfair.
That when my hand hangs
in the air
like a question,
you don't even understand that
your hand is the
answer.
Apr 4, 2012
Apr 4, 2012 at 2:17 PM UTC
You hand just hangs
there like a question.
I want to reach for it.
To fold it into my smaller one.
To fold it into the corner
of my existence that I have left open,
swept clean,
for some time now.
Waiting for the right one to crawl into it and
stay for a while.
I can feel the crackle of your skin from here. Without
even touching it.
That the sound of air leaving your lungs
makes my body clench low and wet and tight
seems almost unfair.
But to understand
that you aren't moved
by me
at all,
that too,
seems unfair.
That when my hand hangs
in the air
like a question,
you don't even understand that
your hand is the
answer.
Request permission to use this poem