Poet 
: 4
Your fingers find mine in the space between heartbeats,
a silent conversation written in touch—
palm against palm, a perfect geography
I want to memorize with my skin.
There’s electricity in the way you lace
our hands together, thumb brushing thumb,
as if you’re saying what words stumble over:
I choose you, I choose you, I choose you.
In crowded rooms, your hand becomes my anchor,
steady pressure that whispers I’m here
while the world blurs at its edges.
Nothing else matters but this connection.
I study the map of your knuckles,
the gentle valleys between your fingers
where mine settle like they were carved
specifically for this constellation.
Sometimes I catch myself staring
at our joined hands resting on the table,
overwhelmed by the simple miracle—
that you want to hold onto me too.
Your pulse drums against my wrist,
a rhythm I want to learn by heart,
this tender claiming, this gentle binding
that makes me feel completely, finally home.
Even when we sleep, fingers entwined,
I dream in the language of your touch—
knowing that tomorrow I’ll reach for you again,
hungry for this perfect, simple symphony.