This hand that writes,
that reaches out the only way it can-
the only way it is allowed to.
The hand that you take, whenever you do,
takes my breath away, with you.
The only hand that dries the tears ’til they’re gone;
and that rests over my heart
when true lies pour from your mouth.
The same hand that vowed, then and now, to
honest happiness and sinful secrecy of
holding a hand that is. . .
not mine to hold,
not mine to own.
___
by Adrienne Luzanne
Bittersweet Nostalgia 