Life

Gentle hairs. Weathered skin.

A metacarpal canvas cracked with wear,

soft with promised years.

 

Bulbous veins, oily digits, and solitude end

where bliss begins—your face, your hand,

your commiseration.

 

Life does not exist alone.

It begins not at conception, but companionship.

Where two breaths make one.

And one heart pumps another’s blood.

 

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