your hands.

And, sometimes
When they touch me,
It hurts.
Like rough stone,
To a paper thing.
The smell of them.
Filtered smoke,
tobacco things.
And,
Memories oozed out of their tips,
Artifact stones buried inside.

Never holding a flame for me,
No torch to lay down,
Or shudder aside.
And, I cowered underneath them,
weak and longing.
Still, somehow forgotten,
Walking through those chambers,
shouldering no pride,
having no guide.

I knew them once,
Thick and heavy on my face.
My cheeks flushed with the faint
countenance of this
borrowed love.
Rough, unused, and worn out.
torn, jagged edges,
to my softest places,
to the dark, guarded spaces
of me.
from you.

And, still,
I long for your touch,
Knowing I may break,
underneath your hand,
I sit wondering
where is the man
I knew so well,
so long,
so prideful.

And, thinking now,
How I see the backsides of them,
more than feeling
the warmth,
the care,
the sense of your touch.

And, knowing now,
How good it will be to never
feel your touch again,
But,
yearning.
hoping.
praying.
needing.

Jason Christopher Johnson
October, 2011