round nails, soft hands

Atop the table,

Long wrists dotted with freckles and symbols of living,

Lie flat,

Spindly fingers intertwined,

My grandmother would say ‘like a piano players’.

As soft skin of a palm lies delicately on top of a set of knuckles,

The round fingernail of a forefinger picks at the rough hips of a thumb.

Raw, ripped skin is exposed,

Hot and sour,

Like lemon juice was running through it.

Disappearing into soft hair,

Moving from the root to the tip,

And emerging the other side,

To take up it’s home on a leaning cheek.

Hands soft from a keyboard,

Un held,

Un gloved,

The wrath of winter holding off,

Maybe just for another week.

Imy Brighty-Potts

Categories: Poetry

Imy Brighty-Potts

I am the founder and editor of The Hysteria Collective, poetry writer, play lover and Philosophy and Politics graduate. Hobbies include wine, cheese and coffee. @imybrightypotts on Twitter. @imyiswriting on Instagram.

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