A crumpled piece of paper

blooms into old-age in my hands.

Gorges run across, through,

into words — possibilities my pen

never explored, or perhaps, rivers

that forgot to be.

Unlike this poem, which bears

no cracks on its skin,

those words weren’t meant to see

you see them bare.

I am afraid they might grow

into my hands if I looked too closely

or cared.

But then, wouldn’t it be nice

to just hold hands and forgo

the judgement in your eyes,

the embarrassment in mine?