His hands should feel like home
Familiar as fresh morning coffee
Otherwise I couldn’t even imagine
Steaming cups terrenal
Espresso lust and mocha,
Dribbling down the corners of our lips.
And if our grounds were too alien
I’d lose my way to such skin
Because when a calm moons linger silent
In his stoic eyes constricted
His old beam permeates my phantom clouds
Troubled from vapors
Imprisoned in my mind.
We may be two versions of the same
As he reaches
New heat ignites prudent blue
Pink and orange
Loosened soil from his grainy palms
Tells familiar truth forgotten.
And at the highest of life’s overwhelm
With gracious hands humid
After another grinding afternoon
I can still tell
He’s not all water
He is more of earth
So I lean on his chest and feel the evidence.
A heart beating sturdy inside firm walls
My hands lay on them assured
Remembering things elusive.
That home can stand amongst phantoms
Unsettled
Clouded
And even then
He holds me.