Her Hands

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i look at my hands
and discover
they’re her hands

my veins
are not as plump
nor as soft

as a young child
her hands
gave me comfort

her veins
were my toy
to rub for hours

this one allowed act
was solace for me
for her too it seemed

a simple act
of touch
we both needed

the affection stopped
as i grew older
and we moved far away

other memories
were of rigidity and coldness
and superficial acknowledgment

when i found she wrote poetry
i realized
another connection

remembering
her hands
brings me closer still

A Little Help From My Friend

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Ghosts of the past linger in the chambers of my memory.

Like the heavy feel of lanolin staining memories a smudged yellow.

An intervening moment of serendipity removes the hold of bygone days.

Again, my simpatico relationship meaningfully ties me to my abundant present.

 

*Thank you for the inspiration, Terry! 🙂

Longing For The Past

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Uninvited days of the past appear at the door of my present.

They push inside to fill the heaviness in the room. A smile begins to form on my weary face.

Uninhibited laughter, passionate entanglements, mundane and easy tasks, all flickering a pretty picture.

Actively watching the gloriously faded memories now vividly replaying in my mind.

But the door closes eventually, and I’m again fully toiling in the sorrow which summoned another life.

Tears, uninvited, fall silently. The wetness glazes over the joy. Images from a previous time return for safe-keeping until my mind summons them. Again.

 

**Originally published PhiloSusi 6/16/14  Posted here with slight revisions.