If you ever asked me, I would tell you it was your hands.

It was your hands.
The way they dance when you speak.
Rhythmically swaying, persuading the words from your lips to my ears.
How they slightly rotate, tracing weightless shapes and figure eights.

It was your hands.
The way they hide your smile when laughing never ceases.
Playfully keeping from me the free-flowing happiness ingrained between your cheeks.
How they creep along the seams of your sleeves when you daydream.

It was your hands.
The way your fingers curl around your jaw.
Gracefully crawling across flaws and scars and golden crosses.
How they withdraw into your pockets when you feel lost .

It was your hands.
The way they fought mine like degraded patriots.
Foolishly waging with fate, awaiting the hand of a played-out soul mate.
How they skated around and scraped at the place where my hands once waited.

It was your hands.
The way they cracked me open.
Willingly casting lashes, I patched the gashes while you set the tracks to run me over.
How they packed the bags you still drag around after my passion crashed to ashes.


If you ever ask me why I fell in love, I will tell you it’s your hands.

Though they only leave mine empty.