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Week 21


Your rough hands were holding guns,
My soft hands were covered in ink stains and papercuts.

Your hands were learning to load bullets,
My hands were plucking flowers and drying them.

Your hands knew how the earth felt underneath you,
My hands, at night, pointing at the stars and the moon.

Your hands grew familiar with weapons and munitions,
My hands grew familiar with the shards of glasses and powdery chalks.

Your hands rubbed your eyes with exhaustion at the end of the day,
My hands wiped my eyes at dawn, when I finally slept.

Your hands ran through your head, now sans the raven mane,
My hands gripped my hair that fell down my waist.

Your hands pressed the soil and the metallic firmness of the arms,
My hands grazed the browned pages and the dew-covered flowers.

Your hands ran over the pages of laws and acts,
My hands never stopping when I wrote and wrote about you in my journals.

Your hands touched her face- so soft, so delicate, so lovely,
My hands ran all over him- pulling him desperately closer to me.

Your hands buttoned the ironed shirt of your uniform while you looked in the mirror,
My hands drawing back, the reason why I will never approach you becoming clearer.

Your confident hands proudly held the firearm,
My shaking hands held the manuscript of the poems I wrote about you,
The pages flying off like tentacles.

Your hands patted the backs of your comrades while you laughed,
My hands, outstretched into thin air, despite knowing our hands will never touch.

Your hands will touch the medals on your chest.

My cold hands will be enveloped by your warm hands.

– B.