Hands

Is the saddest kind of love, that which has been lost. Not one that has struggled through the peaks and troughs of hardship. Not one unrequited as he is far pitched above any man who’d lay eyes on her. When one who’d pave ways for her sits idle in the corner. His mind ravaged with frustration at the blindness to what’s in front of her. He’s never ever felt her like he does within his dreams. Never ever smelt her when she’s splitting at the seams. When life has dealt her brutal blows and she knows what nothing means, so vulnerability somehow tranquilly dismisses possibilities once meant to be. A future dissipates in front of her eyes. Such beautiful promises reveal themselves as lies. All the prospects for her next steps slip to their natural demise as the stairs give way under cautious treads and she falls without reprise. And he could never really know how she truly feels. As at least she has her pride when the secrets just hers still. When no-one knows the burning of the words locked on her lips. There for the taking with the right kind of kiss. The right kind of kiss from the right kind of man .Someone she can count on over years as they span a lifetime as it rusts, a golden hue of trust and lust, a lovers promised planned. Amidst a blur of frantic, grasping, rough and gentle hands.

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