The Hand that Hangs (On)
The fear of learning to be loved.
To let you in when all I see
are the thousand exits spread around the room.
Sniffing anticipatory boredom,
alarms go off unaware of the drill they perform.
Don't slip away.
The hold of our hands so tight it breaks bones.
Don't let me dash too close
I pass through your body of light
to the other side of love.
Platonic love of the romantics.
You treat me so delicately,
speak so softly,
as if I can break at any moment.
Are my cracks so visible to you?
Purples whispering faint enough for your ears to catch,
While I wish for nothing
but witnessing the wings grow out of your back.
Yours is a tenderness I don't understand.
Whatever you see surpasses my vision,
but I hope I never stop it from existing.
And you watch me with these beauties—
emitting warmth simply by looking my way,
as I write about the same stories
over and over,
only adding new details to the monotonous pain.
I miss your voice when it's my turn to speak.
So when we're fusing into one,
well, that's still not close enough.
But that is unspeakable,
for you would think of me less.
Or worse, think I am more—
more than anyone can handle.