Soft Touch

By Fizza Abbas

I already feel the touch of his hand.

The razor-sharp blade cutting through my cheek

sets a reverberating tone.

I hear it sometimes

often when thunder lightning spreads her hands

to welcome rain –

It doesn’t hurt.

His hands feel confused:

to feel my skin or to crackle my bones.

I’m happy –

his hands have a separate entity

that doesn’t accept the orders of neurons:

A shy maze of phalanges and frail lines-

My definition for home.

© 2020 Fizza Abbas

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