My hands still remember
how the sand felt
when my fingers
etched your name on it,
how we held
onto raindrops
as we plucked the
tangerine zest
of our heartbeats,
hand in hand
we bounced off
banks and fences
playing tag with our reflections
and how your grip loosened
when you slowly slipped
taking our skies away
to the farthest stars.

-

where I leave things carelessly.
A muscle memory more accurate
than the visual storage in my head.

-

The warmth of your hand when you hold it tightly in front of the world.♥️

-

Our last hand shake...
Controlling my tears
Smile in my face...
Wishing you a good luck...
Hope you are fine now....

-

The lines on your palms,
Which could trace all your prints.
Where I memorized each and every vein.
And still your touch would be new to me.
When your fingers entwined with mine.

-

The touch of your feet
And hands in my womb,
The feeling of immense happiness,
Of a new life in my body,
Holding you for the first time,
Holding your tiny finger in my hands,
Making you walk holding my hands..

-

The touch of your bristly cheek

-

that I am supposed to write something everyday

-

My hands remember
The recoil of yours when you first held mine.
Your reflex pull-back
That instantly dissipated the intimacy we built,
"What is this?" you had exclaimed.
I rubbed them over my jeans,
Over and over, till they were damp and less pink,
I muttered nervously, fearing you might run away,
"My palms tend to sweat a lot. It's hereditary."
As if to say that it's not my fault.
You had smiled.
You asked for my right arm,
Held my forefinger with one hand and my wrist with the other.
As if I were a piece in the museum,
"This is different", you said, "I like it", you tried.
I explained about the quarterly shedding of skin in my palms,
The blisters and the other disgusting stuff,
You tried to convince me that you love all of them,
Sweat and blisters intact,
It was my turn to smile.
You had apologized for the first wince of disgust and made it up to me,
By finding every excuse to hold it again and again,
I had forgiven you, long before we separated
But my hands remember the withdrawal
The intimacy that vanished in a click of sweaty fingers.

-

To raise a finger,
Wether in objection, rejection or election...

-