Talking to me is holding my alone hands.

I may not say it when we speak, but it’s true.

When i couldn’t find hands, i started on poetry,

My lines are a search for unity in desolation.

I can exchange them for your warm, unwavering gaze

And the time you give to fill mine with kindness,

Acknowledgment of my specialness, unstated

But that i can sense, like two ponds in proximity

About to become an oxbow lake, melted in reverse,

Then looking for another and another, until we’re

A gushing river that has no time for itself,

Curving in glee towards the all-embracing sea.

 

Photo credit: A. Jakov, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons

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