Hands reaching for mine in the car and in the dark and across the table. Hands always warm, not like eyes or words. I ask you what I am to you and all words fail you. You reach for my hand, press your thumb into my palm as if that is an answer, like I should know that despite your silence and wide eyes, you would choose me if I asked you to. I pull away as you reach forward and try to hold me for a little bit longer. You’re not ready for me to go yet, but you can’t tell me to stay. So your hands are left empty, and warm, but ever so lonely.

Hundreds of millions of men

All over the world

Arms linked in solidarity

Enough had finally been had

Sensibilities had shifted

Preconceptions without enmity

Their Women, All Women, Were People

Finally.

Their eyes were open. Their hearts full.

Under the weight of their conviction

The Patriarchy will fall.

Graveyards are just gardens,

Planted with different seeds,

Instead of flowers,

All that’s left are memories,

And it’s alright to pick one,

There’s no one there to see,

All you have to do,

Is plant another before you leave.