She notiiiced the tremors were getttting worse
This terrrrified her
She had always relied on her intelllligence
Yet this requiiired her hands to work
After all, for 25 years she has writttten for a liviiing
But after her BMW kissssed a freight truck last November
Before that delightful triiip to Italy and France
To write about love and wiiine and her passion for hiiigh fashion
She had to hiiire an editor.
~Just L (September 28, 2018)
His hands slip in under my T
His fingers are cold
But his body is warm behind me.
His breath on my neck is hot
I’m not mad at this
~Just L (March 1, 2018)
I hope he, too, felt we made love whenever we held hands.
~Just L (About him, May 11, 2016)
Author’s Note: I remember the spark the first time I pressed my hand into his. Standing tall, beside him in the back of the crowded room, hiding smiles, sharing silent dreams.
See also: Wait For Him
See Contents for other Confessions.
My man does not know I study his hands more often than I survey his face. His, strong and freckled, which cover my own, fragile and tanned. I compare and contrast our fingers entwined. His hands are substantially larger, and I welcome the heat of his palm warming mine. Closing my eyes I discover the alchemy of the ordinary and the divine. Precious bands on our right note a sentimental history. Some scars continue to remain a mystery. I am intrigued by all he has held in his grip and still holds in his heart. Yet my mouth forms no questions. My research requires no answers that have not already been found in his eyes or in his kiss. I trace his life line with my index finger logging a thousand love stories with my eyes wide open.
-Just L (found poem, March 22, 2015)