The texture of my love,
makes it difficult to grasp.
Like the space between
ridges on a penny,
you fumble to retrieve
with nails cut too short.
I push
until it is forced
against something solid
and
space opens
for my insistence.
It gives way
to rough hewn articulations,
and I grab at it with motions,
too clumsy and insensitive
for such a task,
when cut to the quick.
