One Hand
Your hand trailed down my jaw line.
You were not speaking. Neither was I.
I was staring out the window
wafting in a soft wind.
We had been fighting and your voice
had never sounded so broken
the way it groaned like a shrill gate.
I had wanted to climb into your lap.
I was a child again, but the distance
was too great and your expression too stern.
You said I was an expert at silence
and perhaps I am. Still, your one hand
broke through space and time
to my isolated planet.
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