I turn the keys of your hands
To lock your fingers into place,
Hoping they’ll stay there forever,
Knowing they’ll go with a turn of a lever,
Pulling apart like a piece of scotch tape.
Without those warm golden nuggets my hand
My arm flutters down, weak and worthless
Heart unlocked, open for all to see
The emptiness and powerlessness,
Meekly searching for a key
To repair the vulnerability and the crack,
to quickly turn and bring back
A handful of treasure to fill the void
Fill the gap.
I’d search from Appalachian snows to Bournemouth sands
to find the incessantly heavenly warmth of your hands.