April 10, 2026
Elexis Johnson
Your hands knew me
before your words ever did
reaching the places
I didn’t know were asking
to be found.
There are parts of me
that still warm
at the memory of your touch,
as if your fingerprints
left echoes
instead of marks.
You hold me
like someone reading a story
they’d waited years to open,
turning each page slowly,
carefully,
as if rushing
would ruin the meaning.
Even now,
long after the moments has passed,
my body remembers
what my mind tries to forget
the way your hands
spoke a language
we never learned
to translate.
– E. J.