All of the thousands of bristles travelling across the tips of my fingers,
And let me touch his chin to comfort my autistic hands,
To calm my waves of cerebral feeling.
My ocean of vitality
And manic energy
Tamed by touch
I brushed my hands along the fabric,
The linen and cloth button tops
And the smell of deodorant in the morning
That smelt like my dad and no other.
That used to lift me out of slumber,
Those grey streaks of wisdom
That knew the right thing to do
Turned to white.
In the night I remember
My own lonely fright
I followed a man
Who showed me what’s right
Now I have my own chin of bristles,
My own calloused hands,
And I see how we have always waded through the darkness.
Hand in hand in hand
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