Photo by Aiden Nelson
fingers like birds. I don’t believe in God,
but I believe in this – skin to skin contact,
the holiness of held breath and unlocked
potential. lavender iced coffee. glitter
on her eyelids. this is sex. or something
like it, her hands touch mine and I know,
deep down, that I’m in for it, oh god
I’m in for it her hands are like birds,
fluttering into intimacy, soft and small
and delicate as they brush against mine.
her hands are cold, but so am I; I’m frosted over
with winters of blue-eyed heartbreak.
knuckles white from holding on
to forgiveness not yet given. I don’t believe
in God but I believe in this – erotica
in the creases of her palms. I don’t believe
in much, but I believe in her hands. I would
suck the dirt from under her fingernails
just for a taste of what keeps her grounded.