Hands Touch

I asked about your flower sleeves
and we touched
finger to finger
like God had touched my prints
and that colliding fusion of warmth spread up my arm
and so we are disarmed
all our blades and gunpowder
falling apart
relieved of insecurity
are fingers tangled into temporality
maybe it could last into eternity
that on contact, marked an ending
hands are sweaty, fumbling things
the leaving on necessity
demonstrates definitude
as startling, rippling


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