See them meet.
The childlike wonder on their faces. The rapture. The anticipation. The thrill of touch. The exploration of joints and gaps. The overwhelming rightness of it all. Fuzzyheaded with the joy of the moment.
See them live.
Interruptions and pressure. The mundanity of living drapes their shoulders and they have no time. To last, they fight and claw and push through the fog. To the last, carving out a safe haven; a home for their souls. It is delicate and easily broken, yet made to endure, if cherished and chosen. They grip harder, for the sake of a vow.
See them fade.
Worn. Bent. Glassy-eyed and frail. Forgotten by most, remembered by the other. Days filled with emptiness. Nights vacant of wholeness. Time has waged its war and it will surely prevail. Yet a gentle touch is the defiant howl in the face of all that seeks love’s demise.
See them love.
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2 thoughts on “Holding Hands”
Phill, I appreciate this poem more every time I read it. I sincerely hope you keep at it and we see more poetry from you. Well done, my friend!
Love it! You’re a poet and don’t know it. Now, maybe you know it.