Why do I have hands?

Why do I have hands,
to touch and to feel
to mold clay into wonderful shapes
to paint smiling faces on canvas,
only to reach and find that I can’t?

Why do I have eyes,
to see the wonders of the day
to close so that I may dream
to send messages of hope with their expressiveness,
only to cry these tears that blur my vision?

Why do I have a mind,
to think and learn
to feel and offer insight
to construct ideas in flowing scenes,
only to imagine what the fear must feel like?

Why do I have a heart,
to live and to breathe
to love endlessly
to feel emotions,
only to break, because you are gone?

Why do I have hands,
when I cannot hold you?