Hands

When away he releases the chalkboard frequency
That scratches the vinyl as a virgin love may call to
It feels raw without the nails to release the frequency
Of a poet's intonation, he may throb to

Inbetween those hands are brass and brazen 
And dogeared books and protean pulchritude 
And he basks in the darkness that throbs between a ribcage
It is he that finds the lachesism in disaster

Love is the most dangerous game for our obsession
He finds probity in the possibility that one day, and someday soon
He will find the frequency of a girl draped in his inure
And my blood will run to stone as we solidify the memory

About the poem: I love explaining what a poem means to me behind the writing. This poem in particular is about finding stability within a relationship. I consistently find myself giving too much of myself in my relationships, with too little in return. This poem represents the first time, in a long time, that I've found somebody who loves me just as much as I love myself, and I don't feel as if I have to give up a part of myself for. Yet still, I fear the feeling of the toxicity in the relationship. This poem represents all those things, and most importantly, what it means to you.