There are two hands.
Two hands in the sweltering dark.
Blistering,
boiling dark.
The digits are finding their way to each other
across galaxies of darkness
somehow.
Fingers touch. It is a feeling unknown.
Rough fingertips across white palms
that cannot be seen.
(Perhaps dark palms, one can never be
too sure.)
The fingers interlace,
melt together,
like it was something meant to be.
Maybe it was
just
a natural attraction.
"Or was it the hand of fate
that
seemed to fit
just like a glove?"
Nothing is seen, but feelings are being felt
across the darkness.
Silence seems so humble.
Blindness is so beautiful.
One hand withdraws.
The other is left alone to rot for a moment.
Cliche, that loneliness.
The first hand is a patient hand, a gentle hand, a modest hand.
The second hand returns.
The first hand is alone no more.
The second hand is hesitating, a quivering hand, a hand that need
only be held
once in a while.
The second hand will return now
and again, realizing that being alone
in the dark is colder than expected.
The first hand is in love.
The second hand keeps ticking.
Time is running out.
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Comments
Cliche, that loneliness.
The first hand is a patient hand, a gentle hand, a modest hand.
The second hand returns.
The first hand is alone no more.
The second hand is hesitating, a quivering hand, a hand that need
only be held
once in a while.
Plus I love "(Perhaps dark palms, one can never be
too sure.)" x3
Thank you <3333333
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My illustration account. ♥
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My illustration account. ♥
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