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Touch
When I press my hand into yours
I am reminded of our differences.
Your fingertips soft against mine;
Peeling, the way I sit at the kitchen table
Letting my bit nails sink into the skin
Of the pomelo, to peel back the pith
and reveal the grains of meat
'til flesh can breathe the cold air
Like wet skin to winter
I tell myself it is easier to feel
this way, left stripped of coat
I show you my nakedness through touch
in which you can feel
every callous and wrinkle
i sink my hand into yours
comfort and warmth
and you hold it
with the tenderness to keep
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I love pomelos, sometimes peeling them more than eating them. I like the concentration it takes.