Hands

I hope you don’t crack like dry lips in the winter

Or hands 

None the less you told me you can handle rough times more than fingers can count

For some reason I grasp

More like squeeze this idea

Until calluses form and I pick them

Till craters are implanted 

Reminding me of the moon

So maybe it’s a conspiracy that I could touch the comfort of trust

The Grand Canyon rests just outside my teeth

Although it must seep to the back of my throat

Because the words hike through fevered miles just to say how I feel

Maybe it would feel like cocoa butter being rubbed into every crack and crevice

Maybe some Vaseline on the daily will replenish

The lips with a glass of water for my throat

Or it feels like to warm hands 

Held together with the closest separation looking like an Afghan