men have hands that touch --
sometimes soft, like lingering whispers.
other times they are rough and callused, like
beaten Converse and shots of liquor.
my hands are feeble. they're blue
and they can't keep steady. i hide them
under my desk so they can quake in peace.
but maybe,
if you hold mine, brush mine,
for the briefest second, they can
finally rest in peace.
Author notes
The 6th edition to my poem-series, the sarah chronicles.
a bit weaker than my other writes, but lately i've been on a major brain-block.
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