They’re just hands.
I mean I look at them, and they’re just hands.
Same as everyone else’s, two pieces of weirdly shaped flesh, with a couple bones inside.
They’re just hands.
And they’re soft on the palm side, and hard on the knuckles,
A few hidden bruises on the knuckles like a fighter, and like a smoker, the middle finger of the left one a bit crooked,
But they’re just hands.
Scarred sometimes, healing sometimes, but they’re still just hands.
Sometimes warm, sometimes freezing cold, sometimes firm, sometimes shaking, sometimes dry, sometimes soft….
They’re still just hands .
Yet why are your hands….not like hands?
Why do they have such a warmth to them, that it just feels right?
How can hands have a beating rhythm, a rhythm no one can identify, but me…
How are your hands…not hands?
For surely, simply hands can’t make you feel safe like yours do, surely they can’t rid your brain of every humanly thought other then the feel of them on your body….
Hands are meant to hold things vital for survival….then why is it that your hands hold me like I may be vital for survival…
Why are your hands not hands?
Why do your hands convey more to me than your mouth can ever express, why is it that they play such a sweet melody to my skin, salsa dancing to every beat of my heart….
How are your hands, not hands?
For every minuscule part of my skin that they touch, they play the role of a match striking a match box, lighting fire to every pore of my skin, a fire that the worlds best fighter couldn’t extinguish, for the fire they ignite is beyond the control of any earthly being….
Surely hands are not that influential, then why are your hands, not hands?
For every time they journey across my waist to the other side where the grass is less greener, they pull me to a paradise where nothing matters except the mere feeling of being loved, but hands are just meat and bones, why do they make me feel like I can give life a chance where I may be happy….
For hands are just hands, then why are your hands, not hands?
And if hands are just hands, why do I let yours pull me to a sea where I willingly drown into the waves of safety….for the mere idea of being pulled into an abyss is scary in itself, then what is it about your hands that make me feel safe enough to be pulled into whichever direction they guide me to…
For hands are just hands….
Then why are your hands, not hands?