13

You don't like your fingers,
that they are large.
I like,
how your nails have a milky shade,
a lunar nature,
and glow on your tanned skin,
as if the light didn't know where to hide,
and so it remained on the edge.
On the table, wood,
plates, crumbs,
a fork in the cake,
and in between, two hands:
mine smaller, yours larger —
without victory, without judgment.
You place your palm over mine
and the pressure is so precise,
that the furniture in my chest rearranges itself.
On my back is time,
written in black, ordinary,
and you cover it up,
as if measuring could be stopped.
And it dawns on me,
that I've been waiting a long time
for something like this:
not for a gesture,
for a hand,
that remains.