Open hand.
I open up my hand, fingers flat so that the insides of my knuckles touch yours. Our fingers don’t curl in an anxious grasp the way they used to. Words are such vulgar things. It is the silence of touch that tells me more than practiced syllables ever could. I look for nothing more than that silence to tell me everything I need to know. Everything else is distorted by experience.
I want to go to a place where there are no regrets and I am
free of sinister memories and fractured dreams. I want to close my eyes and
return to our cove of secrets. Etched in limestone, preserved delicately in
shale our story rests buried beneath the sea.
Our fingers don’t curl, but the insides of our knuckles touch. Just before sleep summons, I still feel your pulse on my skin.
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