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.