I got you buried in my hand; a melting ice cube, a rough rose coloured crystal for luck, butter to grease the pan. Full moon and foxes in the gorse fort at the end of the garden. I got you buried in my hand like crushed walnuts ready for mixing and a teaspoon of vanilla essence the colour of black tea. New growth in the garden and old weeds to be pulled. You are buried within me if you like it or not. Wedged into my bones like plaque, moles, scars from times I cannot recall. You are in my hand buried like forgotten warts, welts from exertion, unspoken fears.
The thing is you don't even know this. These things I carry in my hand because of you. Sometimes the weight causes me to stop and measure and try to alleviate. I wring it all out. Toss it into the wind that blows in from the sea, the wind that dances across the stone and the yellow fields that cry out for Spring. I pray to the pheasants who arrive at the back field in their quiet and dignified fashion. Settle in. Do not cause a fuss. Plan their mating, warm the grasses with their pulsing wings, the smell of unsettled land infusing their nostrils. New growth.
I got you buried in my hand alright. And my hand shows the cradle of you. Lines collide like jet streams at sunset. Glorious things. Orange lines trail into blue. People all going somewhere. Tucked into seatbelts and magazines. Dinner on trays. Bloody Marys. Trays of plastic food. I imagine them up there looking down at me. At the woman with the scarf in her hair, yellow primroses on cornflower blue looking back up at them and her hands are spread out, her palms like two weights of you on either side of her and nothing else in the middle but some sort of love.
There. This is no love poem or story. It just is. It is a simple state this. Cradling someone. Carrying their soul in your hand like a precious thing. Like it becomes part of you. No big deal. A second skin. No love song at all. It just is.