Hands

My hand,
In search of yours
Reaches out
Touches nothing.
Touches what it can;
A blanket, a pillow,
Poreclin, moist and cool -
Stark in contrast
With the near scalding water
Of this near nightly tub.
But these things
Are breathless.
No take, all give,
And what softness they lend,
Your rough fingers lacked.
What tenderness lived -
There in your far-off palms -
Will not be matched
In your inanimately filled absence.
So out reaches
My hand,
Searching
(without my full consent).