I can’t remember
the lines on your hands,
the wrinkles and scars
that make your touch your own.
And would it matter if I did?
Time has altered
your fingers and your grip.
You hold her differently
than you held me.
Your hands have grown
stronger and more sure.
Your lifelines are carved deeply
into these foreign digits
that used to be mine,
that were at once
rough and tender
and are now a solid mystery
I will never conquer.
I memorized your
curves and hollows
and imperfections
in the flesh that defines you.
Now others know your skin
and the constellation of freckles
that always guides me home.
You have gained inches and
years and intricacies
I will never know.
I know the old you,
the you who bent to my whispers
and delicate touches.
I pretend I know you
but maybe only my hands did.
Maybe they have forgotten
the way your own
have lost the sensation
of my fingers
running through your hair.


2 thoughts on “Knowing

    • I hope it does for you too. Thanks for the reblog of my other poem. And for the kind words you said. It means a lot that people like you like my words. 🙂


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