His Hands

I stir a pot filled with emotions I just can’t seem to describe

Words boil between my reality and dreams

Biting thru pressed lips

Regrets of what was lost and truly never was bubbling at me- the desolation starts to haunt

Turning off the flame I lay the spoon down

I drift

I envision the grass beneath my feet

Facing all four corners of the wind

The crispness of air- it taunts

There is no outside warmth-only that of my own beating heart

A circle of breeze- the loneliness

I exhale, close my eyes

I catch of glimpse of his hands from the memories I’ve placed

The longing of comfort

The thickness and protruding veins

Strength flowing throw his fingers

The attractiveness of his hands

I want to paint a lasting image

Hmm, I begin to wonder…

I can’t describe why I imagine them when I drift between worlds

The magnetic attraction of this unknown man

He only exists between the light and space in the darkness of my mind

I don’t want to open my eyes

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