Tiny lines criss cross all our insides.
It's like my hands hardened
And creased over the years
Skin folding over skin in
Papery attempts to hide sin.
Will I ever know what wrinkles
Your unclenched fists hold?
Your presence holds universes
In the safety of my sweetened lunacies
Remaining unaware of how absences feel.
Should I have confessed
Or left my shameless sorrow
Sitting on the sill, till
Time and (more) distance lets you know
My fingers might untwist themselves tomorrow.
Maybes sit next to catastrophes.
A jarful of hesitation slipped
My grip, so you found us another.
So we sit still,
Hiding our hearts in hands
That will not touch.
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