my hands.

and,
thinking of how they long
to reach out and touch you,
remembering the curve
of your cheek,
the fine whisps of hairs
on your chin.
how they long to linger
in the curls of your hair.

this mutiny,
this exile of sorts is more
than i can take.

and,
remembering the softness,
the loose grip on your arm,
in the stillness of night.
the knowing in the clear daylight,
that I can never reach out,
can never touch you again.

There's too much pain and longing,
and pity and wronging that have
oozed from these fingertips.

and,
silently hoping
beyond some feigned hope
that I could shoulder your embrace,
feel the curve of your cheek
on your splendid face.

and,
knowing they will never hold yours again.
nor,
crest around our sacred place,
nor,
feel any ecstasy,
from our lifeless love.

and,
knowing this path is for the best.

We never molded any future,
from the balance of our past,
no firsts ever garnered from our lasts.

but,
still,
hoping,
praying,
needing,
longing.

Jason Christopher Johnson
December 6, 2011