Your hand reached across the
room, cutting through the air like a soft ribbon. I waited to see if anyone was
near before I sat up and leant closer. Your fingers were shaking as the cool
night air caressed them, trying to guide you away from me. Each second my hand
inched closer to yours until I steadied your tremors with my own, making you
warm again. Our fingertips coming together slowly, the pressure of touch was
comforting in the dark and lonely quarters. You were soft but I could feel the
groves in your hand, a map of your life. I walked your journey with my
fingertips but I couldn’t tell where it ended, how you came to be here.
Although, I didn’t know that of myself, it doesn’t bare thinking about. Holding
your hand, not being able to see your face or your body, I thought at least
there is one person left who still has something inside.
I woke up wondering if it was a
dream.
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