10/19/11

This Hand
By Olga Mladinov


Oh, how this hand misses yours. How many times has it twitched for your fingers to entwine within its branches? How many times has it cringed or cramped in remembrance of the last time it buried itself in your hands, enveloped love? Or, how many times has it unleashed beads of damp frustration when the comfort of your hand was long gone?

Oh, how it shakes and trembles for your strong truth. The creases in its palm hoarded every pattern your index finger gently laced. Every spiraled fingertip recalls the feel of your beautiful roughness. These yearning appendages stretch themselves out, as far as possible. Perhaps to grasp of a digit, a fingernail, or hell just a simple graze of supple flesh. Only, to come back empty, curling up into a compressed ball of knuckled despair.

My hand. This very hand. It fatigues and pales at the realization that no other hand has fit so perfectly within it’s embrace. And so it plays a lovely song. For you. It sweetly, yet hastily, taps each finger on any encountered surface. Performing a silent melody that vibrates to the earth, for the world to feel. And when it is done, it lays there, with a pulsating palm. Convulsing as if there is no oxygen. Within the silence, it lays with hope, trying to regain its solidity. Soundly, it is waiting...

This hand. Oh, how it misses yours.


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I do not know whether I am a poet or a writer or a creative soul unleashing words or none of the above. I only know that I am merely a curious and confused mind, that attempts to dissect love down to the very electrons that spin my entity into existence.