How We Hold Our Hands

I can always tell how long it will last or how much it will hurt,
by how we hold our hands

with obligation
awkwardly
not at all

or intertwined and tightly gripped fingers
that communicate all on their own
our shared hesitations and advancements

palms full of heat
the only part of us not fighting our magnetic pull

when our lips fall quiet and ears grow tired
our hands continue to meet like old lovers bumping into the other at the market
returning to embrace after decades apart

fingers that lock naturally between the other
leaving the space between each
suddenly very empty upon their absence

this kind of puzzle piece hand holding
leaves you like you lost just that, when it’s gone

Something that fit so well, but left anyway

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