Skin so soft, I hesitate to touch it sometimes with my age-worn own. My knuckles, a roughened ridge spanning the width of my hand. Yours, an innocent row of dimples where hand meets fingers. When you reach up to hold my hand – or maybe just a finger or two – I am honored. It’s a gift, so swift in the offering that one might miss it, mistake it as just something we do, holding hands. But I catch it, and hold it, and tuck the feeling away in my mind, like a hand slipping into a glove, to keep warm for when coldness sets in.
WordPress Writing 201, Assignment Three. Prompt: skin. Form: prose poem. Device: internal rhyme.