163. Holding My Own Hand
I've held a million different hands. Each drawn from a special texture. Each sparked with their own heat. I wished to believe I was being guided, But maybe my hand was being pulled. I sought them out to not freeze in winter. But by grace I reached my hand to it's ice. My fingers sank into the cold. They warmed up to it's chills, As if they were held themselves By home long forgotten, by me.