grasped rarely, her hands wrinkled and falling apart at the seams move briskly as she walks and when she waltzes, they seem to die like dove wings only to reincarnate into something more removed from reality when she moves them as she talks
isn't it strange? how I wish I had those hands each vein replicated in an effort to capture the quality that perhaps something like me can be used and worn in as time chugs along instead of looking young and unscathed instead of grasping themselves instead of being more fleshy than a home grown peach: let me have this.