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.