And I seem to be waiting

in the vastness of my room

for an ideal reply,

while I sink in my mental comfort

and dark clouds of summer memories.

I am strangely uneasy in this 2:30 AM.

Lonely even, as I wish for one thing to untie the knot in my stomach,

half from the flu,

half from societal consequences.

 

I wish for a hand.

Something to replace the grip of my pillow.

A living, breathing, pumping being.

A presence.

To make me feel safe and secure.

I am conflicted.

I need comfort.

I need a reminder that everything would be alright.

 

A specific hand,

or any hand?

A human presence is all I need.

Is that why in the loneliness of midnight I need to listen to music?

 

A specific hand,

a paw even?

 

Regardless, what would I be without my own hands?

I would not be able to embrace, stroke,

hold.

No art or expression could be made.

No air would flow as negative space through my fingers.

 

I would not be able to hold a hand without a pair of my own.

A hand, a hand!

I need one right now to intertwine in my fingers,

to reassure that miracles are real and that I am

alive.

 

Even without a conversation,

a hand would be such a grace

in the depth of this solitary night.

 

Shall I call for my dog to lend a paw?

Or should I just rant?

Or daydream!

Of when a hand was in mine

and time was

slow.

 

Can I stay here forever?

With a hand in mine,

restricted and through fudge but,

free.

While my home feels like a shoe box,

and he so tall and handsome.

 

Alas, a daydream is in fact

just a dream.

A fantasy!

Shall I just sleep and wait for the eight to three thirty time frame when that hand would be mine?

Indeed a hand is all I need.

 

Is there still Napoleon ice cream in the fridge?