Your Beating Heart

Ghost Of Your Touch

Even long before
I knew I was capable of loving you,
Your hands were more beautiful
Than any other pair.

I remember when we were small;
Your hair was long
And your glasses small-framed.
I would watch in awe
As you made mini-masterpieces.

You would drag a wooden pencil to make small doodles on worksheets
And I would silently admire
The way your fingers curled
Around the worn corner of that page.
The tranquility of your stilled fingers,
Motionless and poised,
Being the most distracting sight
In a chaos stricken room.

Every time I find myself
Studying the hands of another,
I find myself thinking of you.
My mind carries me to the image
Of you imperfect hands,
With your short-cut nails
And feeling of warmth.

I'm not quite sure how
Something can look warm,
But my mind makes an exception for you.
Just the thought of your ample palms
Leaves ghosts of your touch
Up and down my arms.

The last time I studied you hands,
We were not much younger than we are now.
We were surrounded by others,
But that moment, there was no one but us.
And I watched as you wrote small messages,
Just for me,
In the margins of that college flyer.
Your hair was shorter,
And you glasses much larger,
But it felt all the same as before.

As you leaned closer to me,
And your eager knuckles brushed against
My frigid fingers,
I reveled in the warmth I had longed for.
When I met your knowing gaze,
I filled with regret
As I did not take your hand in mine
And hold it with a decade filled of admiration.

Instead I smiled
And looked away.
The beauty of your presence
Had always felt unreachable
And untouchable.
I find myself betting pennies,
But dreaming of winning millions.

So for now you'll stay without me,
Basking in the ghosts of gentle hands,
But wondering what could be
If I threaded our fingers together
And held my most treasured remembrance
Delicately.

-Yelena