Julia of Oceania · Poetry · writing

Hands

I remember your hands.

The roughness of your fingertips, tinged in illegal cigarettes,

and your palms – soft and warm.

My own felt small and infantile, eclipsed by yours. At times, I felt eclipsed by you entirely.

I thought that we were made for each other,

the way that my head hit just beneath your chin.

My small palm in your large palm.

Walking the halls, like two corresponding puzzle pieces connected at the hip.

But something shifted,

My smallness (and perhaps earnestness) became something that you viewed as a fragility.

Your little paper doll girl, more pixie than manic.

So you untaped your hotel door, and let in the girl with hands two sizes larger than mine.

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