What it matters that he
won't touch another one,
when he isn't touching
her, like he used to,
with cold fingers
running on hot skin,
aching? How
could he ever
feel the same
as in those moments,
buried so deep in
the loam of years,
and yet growing
tender and bitter
memories, ample like
the declines and swerves
of the flesh which
the yearning
hands remember?
07.01.2022
#Poem #Poems #Poetry
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