Where Your Hands Are

Her body remembered things

she thought were gone.

Her shoulders stopped living near her ears.

Weight did not send her elsewhere.

She does not know how to fake that.

Does not know how to kiss

without meaning.

Alone that long,

her body stopped distinguishing

between touch and intent.

She watched him step closer

and did not step back.

Not because she wanted more—

because she does not know how

to make less.

Some people can survive almosts.

She cannot.

Her heart does not speak casually.

It does not survive being opened

and told it is misunderstood. 

Do not take her hand.

Do not stop her world.

Do not touch what took her years

to let breathe again.

Because to her,

being held

is already a decision.

s.g.

This poem is one of two in a series of Sheridan's original poems.

Edition 01: Where Your Hands Are

Edition 02: Where Are Your Hands