subject line: hand prints


Worcester, Massachusetts

It’s odd to describe the fact that in moments of emotional intensity, I feel touch in an amplified way.

I can still feel his hand prints on my hips when I think about it. This isn’t dirty in any way. No, it was a couple months ago after he hugged me, he rested his hands on my rib cage. My nerves began to squirm hotly. I loved him madly. He grabbed me that way to reassure me things would be okay. It was a firm grip, the way I image a captain grabs his helm to steer his ship.

The feeling came back today when I wrote a poem about/for him. I can’t decide if I’ll give it to him. He would never understand how my ribs ache when I remember. It’s foolish, I know. But those hands have the power to drag my under the deep or to anchor me in the sand. It’s best for me to think of something else.