By Sophie Bubrick, TIWP student
Rolled over, curled up in thought.
The hand expectantly presses against your back.
A hesitant, confused touch,
Accessing a distant, lifeless mind.
You know that single hand with the familiar wrinkles and imperfections which mask it.
Hungering to get a rise of emotion from you.
Yet you stay,
Back turned to that faltering hand;
The hand which has caressed your face a hundred times over,
The hand that has become something different different and foreign, not so long ago.
Once upon a time…
Lightly holding yours,
Turns into an ever so slightly firmer grasp.
As if the hand wants to make sure you’re still there and not a figment of the imagination.
From sliding around your waist,
To impatient finger pads tapping nervously if the other hand will ever show up to ease the instability.
Little tickles blessing your body,
Turn into desperate shakes
Just to make sure you won’t trip into another path that won’t involve the touch of the hand to that pale, soft back.
So it gives one last weak attempt,
A gentle and promising touch,
Waiting for the other hand’s response.