And You Can't Heal Me Anymore

I slid my bare fingers across the sandy surface, scratching them coarse and raw. The exposed skin on my finger pads now painted strawberry. The rusty bar shuffled beneath my touch and backed away letting sagging arms and weak hands to fall at my side.

A silhouette awaited in the shadows, discreetly rocking from side to side in a nervous twitch. He carried something, wrapped tightly between two hands wound together. His hands are wrapped tight for a reason. Tightened about the object to prevent the surreality of the moment from escaping. To prevent the dream from taking a life of its own and flying away. To prevent the illusion of her beauty from dissolving to a surly mien.

A rose, a box, a letter?

But before we ever saw each other, uncovered by those shadows, our souls had mingled beneath the street lamps. Flitting under the artificial light, dancing with transparent hands entwined, and sailing through the salty air. Fraternizing with all things organic, and then fusing to form the essence of all things hallowed.

That’s how I thought I knew we were meant to be.
But of course that wasn't true.

He stood there fiddling the unknown object in his hand like a child, whispering about hope & faith & auspicious occasions. All of which he dreamed to possess, but never could. “She’ll be here soon, no need for worry.”  His murmur trailed melodiously through the street. It wound about poles, under benches, wrapped it’s euphoric hands around pedestrians, and tickled as it reached my waiting ear.

I stepped forward and all our uncertainties collided.  His mistrust crashed my skepticism to the ground, and my dubiety sent his suspicion rocketing of to a place of assurance. We listened to the moon shout at our stupidity, and watched as the stars flickered their remorse.

His heavily ringed hand reached for mine. Heat and impatience flooded from his fingers as they stretched ahead. But it wasn’t a hand of apprehension and doubt. It was the hand that caressed its lover. The hand that shunned trepidation. And the hand that healed my contusions.  

But his anxious touch only burned my wounded fingers,
                                        As he placed his love in my hands.