(Image by Rikard Karl-ludvig Lindstedt)
This morning I spent a while reading poems by Pablo Neruda, which can be quite beautiful on love, but are mostly about dying. Today, I wanted to find a poem that was devoid of darkness.
So I searched for love poems, and found mostly the ones about eyes and ears and skin and hands, all yearning to be touched or seen. Reading them led me on a chase for a poem that could speak of my awakening this morning, curled on my side, both of my hands wrapped in the single one of someone else—the right curled around a thumb, the left cradled in a palm. I never even noticed, in sleeping, how I was all bound up.