Hands

Your hands were your first language and all formalities and expectations aside I want you to whisper into my skin spell words into my flesh just like I spelled my name over and over inside my chest when I first learned how to make letters out of my fingers at summer camp in 5th grade last night you reminded me of that week more than I'll ever tell you you are running through thick forrest you are sunlight through the trees you are blue skies and you are also thunderstorms I have seen both in your eyes don't ever be afraid to rain I wanted to tell you Both storms were on a Wednesday night the water never touched me either time yet seemed to soak my soul arms around my knees whispered words I think you were too upset to notice that you reverted back to the voice that projects from your fingers sometimes I forget English is your second language you speak it so eloquently hands around your face as if speaking in perfect verse fluttering "what are you saying" fluttering "you're so pretty" "you're so pretty" "you're so pretty" you whispered "pretty" "pretty" "pretty" I repeated using nothing but my hands

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