Just a Poem

Just imagine that the whorls on that hand are scars. I couldn’t find anything better.

On that note, I’m going to try to put a picture with every poem I write.

 

Your Hands

 

Your hands

were dry and chapped

and cracked

and bleeding and scarred.

 

Your hands

are a work of art, my love.

A gallery displaying

all you’ve been through.

 

It’s too bad

they can’t show us the future.

Love,

Ivy

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