Gentle things make you cry

Hands always get lonely when they are cold. 

They seek, fingers first to test the waters, 

Warm crevices, or fuzzy animals

That makes children grab boldly and squeal in

Delight. They nestle on a stone so warm

It spreads like a sunrise into the heart. 

It demands undivided attention. 

Where we are headed to, where we are at,

Blurring station names and everything shrinks

To tracing the words in your palms. Reading 

The Braille of each knuckle and crease, commit

To memory like my favourite line

In a poem. It is raining softly

Without anyone realising. Each drop

Will not hurt you. Each drop leaves an imprint 

Behind, a blush of flowers, shy and pink.

Nameless, favourite flower. They tell me

I am precious and I hold the message

Tight in my palms, where the whole universe

Thunders in the nooks between your fingers.

And you realise gentle things make you cry.