Beyond these two hands, I have nothing to offer. I know not of the puddles that blear your vision, but I will learn of those clouds that bind them. I cannot mend your seared valleys, that are now subdued to tarnished rage, but I will give you the soles of my feet, although calloused, they will sheath you from the blistering ashes, because beyond these 2 hands, I have nothing to offer. On days that the night’s sky, bellows deep, where the ache of your limbs flow into your marrow, lay your heart upon my knees, and I will strum you my song- playful, and steady. I will recite in prose, and verse from soliloquies of Neruda, and Rumi, in hopes you will dream of all the ways I will adorn you, but if I was to promise you the sun, and moon, then I will swallow this Love, unworthy of your truth. I can offer you my embrace- strong, and warm. I can share with you my laughter- feral, and free. And I will show you my roughened patches, scarred by broken paths, because beyond these two hands, I have nothing to offer.