Poetry / She Loves Her Hands.
That night, the night she was wearing her
black robe with the strings tied tightly around her
body—it made her ribs stick out, you remember,
like wire and the scent of illusion—she was thinking
about the last time she had witnessed a
full moon.
You watched her slip between the creases in the absense of
all light, in the shadows;
you watched her move between the doors,
you tasted the soft flesh along the long arches of her
ballroom feet as she walked, as she danced; she waltzed
around the nails in the floorboards.
You felt the guilt when she wrapped her spider arms around
you,
around your waist
as she searched for the matches in your back pocket.
You hid her face in the curvature of your hands.
She loves your hands.
She loves your mouth, the way you breathe,
the tip of your nose,
your flannel jacket.
She loves the idea of your existance,
and in truth, you do too.
You love it only because she did,
only because
she still does.
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this is very impressive. i had to read it a couple of times to let it sink in. i like the way describe the love and longing of one person for another and how the other only reciprocates on the basis of the other’s feelings. i think you could develop this idea a little more concisely and make it tighter, but i really think it’s well done.
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