Lucky Number Seven

Photo by Kel Ward Photography


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


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



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.



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