He sits besides me
in the darkness of my apartment,
holding the heartbreak of my hand

with the saddest eyes that I’ve ever seen –
like two puddles at risk of overflowing.

He smells like sleepless nights
and the scent seeps into my skin
the more he holds me.

It’s not the tightest of touches,
but there’s a purpose to it
that means I can’t let go

because it’s been so long since I’ve been touched
that my body is coated with longing like cobwebs

and I need a touch of something
more than loneliness.

© Keighley Perkins


About handshedown

Keighley Perkins is a Cardiff-based poet whose influences include Anis Mojgani, Selima Hill and Richard Brautigan. Her work has previously been published in "Acumen", "Elbow Room", "Erbacce", "Fire", "Northwind" and "Obsessed with Pipework". She can also be found online on Twitter at @handshedown. View all posts by handshedown

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