The Cradle

To someday walk down the street, hand in hand.
I cannot remember your touch.
It has been such a long time,
But somewhere in my mind is your voice,
Yet I can't remember you ever singing to me.
I long to see your face.

I am positive; you possess a lovely face,
And a beautifully manicured hand.
I wonder if you look like me,
With skin soft to the touch.
I dream of your angelic voice,
Maybe I will hear it in time.

Everything changes with time.
More lines appear on the face,
And there is more tremble in the voice.
The tick of the wristwatch hand,
Does not make me yearn less for your touch.
I am sure you also want to meet me.

You will always be special to me,
Together we will be in time.
My cuts and bruises never received your healing touch.
We were never face to face.
Through your beautiful hair, I would love to run my hand,
And wonder if we have a similar voice.

To read poems to you, I would use my voice.
I am sure you never forgot me,
Like the scars on my hand,
Some things never erased with time.
Like the abusive, street inflicted gashes across my face,
Somehow always tender to the touch.

My heart you can easily touch,
With the silkiness of your voice.
It would be a slap in the face,
To find out you don't feel the same about me.
Never to be healed with time.
Please hold me in the grip of your hand.

The umbilical chord, though cut, binds you to me.
I yearn to meet you, I pray, time after time.
My cradle you, you never rocked with your hand.