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Hands

Sometimes
I think it might be nice
if there were a hand
that I could keep as my own
perhaps it could hold mine
while watching scary movies or
run through my hair
when it thought I was asleep.
And sometimes
I wish I had someone to steal sweatshirts from because
stolen sweatshirts are always more cozy and plus
they smell good too,
like hugs and
Halloween.
But
everyone's hands are full
and their sweatshirts in the wash,
and you are far away and never really cared
at all and
sometimes I wish I could forget things.
Things like coming out from under the bed to sleep
or not sleep
next to you
and things like ripping bread into the bowl
that day we walked home in the rain,
like brushing you when we were swimming in the dark.
And more things,
other things
things you still regret.
I'd tell you but I'm afraid you will
sigh and
roll your eyes
and wish that I would stop being dramatic, after all
you are not mine to miss.
And I only ever borrowed your hands
and your shirt that smelled of cuddling on the couch,
you knew, when I gave it back
that I had been wearing it,
I really didn't care.
And this is just an endless game of
rock, paper, scissors
but I somehow still keep losing
when all I want to do is quit,
and grow up
from childish games that no one will remember
except us
so I surrender;
here,
take my pride and my words and my tired eyes,
and you can keep my hands too,
I won't be needing them.





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