A Wishful Gaze
His fingers are calloused over with wisdom and experience. They resemble old cigars, the ends ready to be sucked into my mouth. My tongue wishes to lightly caress them and erase the scars that have refused to fade over the years. I imagine the wedding band that will adorn his ring finger someday, announcing my presence and trumpeting our love. Images of our wild-haired child's tiny hands, grasping for both of ours as we walk down the street play in my mind.
Someone once told me, "I knew I loved him whenever we would hold hands and I'd look down, unable to make out which hand was mine and which hand was his."
I had always wished for that kind of love.
Her fingers lay entangled in his, prim and polished fingers with red lacquered nails are smothered by his thick ones. I could not tell their hands apart. For a fleeting second, I had seen myself where she sits on the park bench. They gaze longingly into each others eyes, mouths leaning in for the kiss. My wish evaporates into ghost-tailed wisps of smoke before my eyes.
For some, an endless imagination is a curse.
submitted at 7:45pm
17 April 2010
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