The Skin Remembers

His palm, rough

against mine.

Not smooth like mine,

but a ridge,

a hard geography

on the thumb's base.

Years of grip, of heft,

of knowing how to hold on.

It’s a story told in skin,

not a scar, but something deeper.

My own hands are soft,

mostly.

Just a few bumps

from pens, from keys.

But his—

that solid patch,

like a stone worn smooth

by a persistent stream.

It presses against my skin,

a quiet weight.

Something earned,

and held.