I touch those tiny hands
On the other side of the screen-
Hands that once were
That never will be.
Hands that once grazed the world
I have never seen.
Hands,
That once felt the flurry of colours
On its skin;
That marked the world with its imprints.
Hands.
Hands that led life
With unfettered glow.
Hands
Hopeful and clean,
That saw the world
In violet and green.
Unlike the ash and grey
On the other side of the screen.
I keep that picture closed.
Closed lest unfettered nostalgia
Blows back pieces of me,
All a delicate mirage.
A blurry fiction of what was
And will never come to be.
Childhood never happened;
It exists as a fiction in our heads,
Part of an overarching narrative.
Recurrent,
It becomes who I am-
Who I tell myself to be.
I touch those tiny hands
On the other side of the screen-
The me that was
Supposedly me,
That existed and never again will be,
Stares back at me.
I replay that scene in my head,
A blurry fiction of what was
And will never come to be.
A visceral taste of nothingness
And everything at once,
That memory felt to me.
YOU ARE READING
Snippets
Poetry"Snippets" is a collection of what I deem to be the best of my early poetry. Often written late at night, I like to think of them as snippets of my phenomenological experience at certain points in life, a memory of thought out of time that I can rea...
