His hands — rough, ashen, calloused.
My hands have never been so rough.
I braid the grass, leaf
through books.
He pulls the rope, touches
the sun directly, feels
the jackhammer
reach into the earth,
splitting streets into pebbles.
But at night, weary,
when we see the same moon
framed by the onyx sky,
we might both think of home.
What if I washed them?
What if I kissed them?
-
robynjensen posted this
