Description

Your hand were my first map- tracing rivers of veins, mountains of knuckles, roads that led to stories, I'd never walk alone.

This poem is the echo of your pocket watch, he one that ticked through my childhood naps, measuring time in cough syrup and peppermints.

I still remember the way you laughed like a rusty hinge swinging open- loud, sudden and full of light.

- LR. DEVESH