The ghost of your hands in mine (Marcella Boccia)
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The ghost of your hands in mine (Marcella Boccia)
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There is a ghost that haunts my palms,
the faint imprint of your hands in mine,
woven into the fibers of my skin,
where your touch once lived,
and now, only the echo remains.
I reach for you in the quiet of the night,
and in that hollow space,
I feel you as though you never left—
the warmth of your fingers tracing paths
along the edge of my soul,
as if the distance between us
were nothing but a fleeting thought
lost in the folds of time.
Your hands—soft as a forgotten prayer—
lingered once in the spaces between us,
and now, they slip through my grasp,
a memory that slips between my fingers
like water slipping through a broken glass.
And yet, I hold on,
to the ghost of your hands,
for they are not gone,
but live in the spaces where love once bloomed.
They are the pulse of a past that will never fade,
the whisper of a promise that never breaks. So, I wait,
with the ghost of your hands in mine,
feeling the tender weight of what we were,
and knowing, in the quiet corners of my heart,
that no distance can erase
the touch of you that still lingers,
woven into the fibers of my skin,
where your hands once were,
and still, forever, are.
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