I’m listening. Watching his hands sculpt worlds out of the air. Marking the time of a story, gathering molecules of meaning, spreading fingers to fan facts while whole words form in the space in front of his face.

His forearms follow. Calming the hands. Fuller. Stronger. Softer hair. Forearms forgive the hands’ frenzy and connect the fingers to the body.

My hands, now wrinkled, wringing worries to the bone, had agreed that they only had each other to rely on. Hand in hand holding on for dear life through this endlessly empty life.

Under his arm. Softest skin of all. Bicep. Beauty calling me closer. Where have these arms been? Wearing shirts, suits, conducting a life long before me.

My cheek finally falls to his arm. “Safe” whispers the past. The sweetest, softest landing for a love that has waited lifetimes to find a home.

Where should we go together, arms of the man meant to take my hands from me? Arms, the length of which I recognize as time itself.


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