The folds of his hands
I can't forget,
weird shapes that
disjoint,
thumbs splaying
and creating lakes
at his wrists.
I swim there
as a mermaid with
long gold mane
and an untamable
spirit.
The craters of
those hands,
rough and cracking
in the hissing cold.
December reddens
the desert of his palms.
The bends
between fingers,
hairpin turns and
mountain passes,
here I cross the
Khyber pass.
Worldly,
I kiss the leather
he becomes.
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