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A letter to my hands

I know I taught you to hold on everything that disappears, too tightly.

I convinced you each time that things would be different.

But, I also taught you that you had fire in your fingertips and fight in your fists.

I taught you that no matter how much it would hurt you couldn't give up.
Nothing that would be worth it would come easy.

Sometimes you have to learn that you have to hold on in order to teach others that letting go is the easy way out.

I never wanted you to be the hand that let's go. I taught you to fight.



I fear you're letting me go.

I remember the days when I would sketch you over
and over
and over
again.
I followed your angles like the path home.

I fear, I sketched you to remember your glory.



Together we have learned to heal. Your touch, my heart.

We've been the security for small hands searching for the hand that will never let go. The drier of tears. The creator of visual representations of all we see. The writer of words gone unspoken. The lover who cherished touching his body like the gilded treasures it possessed. The dancing fingertips playing silent music.

You have been my connection to the world. You allow me to experience my feelings in the flesh. You are the past, the present and
I need you to be the future.

I know I taught you to hold on too tightly. I know these days your hold is growing tired.

Don't let go. I promise I will never let you hold to anything I know will disappear any longer. I promise to take more care to recognize what you need. I promise to not push you to far. I promise to never let go. So please, don't let go.

We have tears to dry. Lips to touch. Small hands to hold. New places to experience through our fingertips. Rain droplets to collect in our palms. Skin to caress like the welcoming light of  the moon on water.

We have a hands to find that will never let go of ours. So please, don't let go.

I taught you to fight. I taught you to fight with love and commitment. So please, don't let go.

Love,

Your heart

-Melanie Hamblin

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Attempts at Life and Happiness

 

The men of fortune live to die

Where has Death gone for love?

Rustling skirts and untold lies

 

Even after all is mine,

The pain and memory tug,

The men of fortune live to die.

 

But lit by glowing fireflies

Graves of dead and living dug

Rustling skirts and untold lies

 

Flaring for all those left to find

Greed and anger high above

The men of fortune live to die.

 

Running over, asking why

Bound in fens and mires sloughed

Rustling skirts and untold lies.

 

And rising moons cannot rely

For nothing stops the crying dove

The men of fortune live to die

Rustling skirts and untold lies.

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3 a.m. Phone Calls

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Flea Market

 

We were led like unsuspecting sheep

into the luminous amphitheater of colour

The sky swelling blue above us opened

our ears to the music of the trades.

 

Bursting with a citrus scent

The lustrous floor heaved with

competition. Tan barons raging

war over ten foot tall yellow

counters built from sea-wood

planks drifted in by labor spent

on some island in the Caribbean

 

Exophthalmic eyes

reigned supreme & bulged in

dominant throbs over this year's

crop of paddled Opuntia & newly

reddening Lychees. The sellers'

hands fought on endlessly

with recalcitrant force against

the seasons selling sour carved

coconuts flesh stuffed in dripping

freezers next to pineapple

dressed in lime & paprika.

 

"Eureka," shrieks the crowd out-

loud beneath the floating boats of the

flea market's shroud. Bury your eyes

next to the push carts & stuff poverty

ripe fresh with sweet lies instead.

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love poem beta (revised)

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