I have these hands with nails like paint chips
and wrinkles that show my true age.
There's a scar on my little finger
That you never noticed
And I don't know how it got there.
I have these hands with dirt engrained into the thick calluses
Of my palms,
Dirt as in tucked away lies
And thoughts
I'd rather not share.
I have these hands that trace the bedsheets
While I sleep
And touch the places you no longer inhabit.
(My heart, sweat soaked nightmares, under the bed, the crack in my favorite mug.)
I have these hands that get trapped in my un-brushed hair,
And my un-washed clothes,
While they search for the pieces
You left behind.
I have these hands that ache as a heart is supposed to.
You have hands
That shook when they held mine
And now without them
My hands have begun
To shake.
I have these hands, these shaking hands.