Love at it’s most colorful moments.
I thought they were strong, then I laid them upon delicate skin.
Fresh blood seeped through the wrinkles that lay on them,
valleys that needed to be filled.
Now, I am sitting here watching the reflections in the window before me.
Images of past experiences blurred as time passed,
sweeping them away, each breath came easier
as I began to forget.
She told me that he has strong hands,
let him lift this from you.
I let it go,
took it as it came.
I found his strong hands, I felt as he lifted as high as he could,
and somewhere in this image, this feeling
I realized his hands we’re my own,
worn from labor
covered in a mask of age.
Time went slow and I felt as the story I created was misinterpreted,
and that was my exact intention.
To hide away behind as many words as possible.
No one’s hands could lift this, but my own.
Here the men and women have stories so familiar.
Like the shadow of an almost forgotten dream.
But when we have woken we realize we must not say a thing.
They hold onto these secrets with strong hands,
whispering, “I will not loose you again.”
I’d like to see a game of hide-n-seek where the seekers hide, and the ones who hide, seek.