Hands Which Heal Me Poem by Michael Timothy Rose

Her hand runs down my face
like a cloth, softly molding to its contours,
cradling pains like a mother and reminding
me of love
when confusion
makes all of it void.
And just like a cloth
she cleans my spirits;
she carries my tears
in gentle, weeping
hands. In this moment,
her love adn empathy
is the only light capable
of penetrating through and into these retinas,
bringing any sight in absolute
darkness.