These hands are showing signs of long use and empty gestures.
The lingering handshake of friendship yearning.
A finger chewed off. Bleeding; staining clothes and skin.
A lifeline cut short before it kick-starts again, halfway up my arm.
These hands are cracking in the heat, drowning in the spring,
fading to brown in the Autumn and freezing in Winter.
I can count the pores now. It takes me an entire day.
Alone in my room I sit and press ink to the spots I can feel
aching to be more than empty oceans waiting to be filled.
These hands are clicking into place, bones snapping as they trace
the outlines of themselves on each and every facet of my life.
These hands are showing signs on long use and empty gestures
but beneath the skin, my blood pumps fiercely.
These hands would terrify waterfalls
and the mountains they come crashing down.