Hands, opening, hands
in the backseat, strumming on strings
of my heart and caressing the black ink
written on my skin, three words
not deep enough
to last because those hands
always found another.
Hands, familiar yet distant, hands
yearning for far more than I could give
holding up, up against the wall
out of breath from the nearness
too close, I lost
we lost, little hands
never to be known.
Hands, sweeping, hands
thought I needed
innocent
devoted hands
never should have been mine
to steal.
Hands, scarred, hands
friendship reaching
in the dark
aligned perfectly
together as illness
blanketed my body
saving me
from myself, pieces
only those hands
will ever know.
Hands, lifeless, hands
gripping in the night
pleading for a piece
of yesterday, that I
had never known
hands, mistaken for
forever.
Hands, regretful hands,
largely leaving in the night
silent hands.
Hands, bewildering, hands
grasping towards perfection
first striking and missing
hands, remorseful, hands
gently tracing my life line
vowing to be the last
closing gracefully
finally forever hands.
-K.A.
