You're getting to know the back of my hand
While I'm getting to know the shape of my heart
As it violently presses against my sternum in a uniform timing.
It is dark, but I know your eyes are glancing down at my pale hand,
Flushed pink with the cold,
icy wind that angrily rushes through the window to our right.
No one has ever shown this much interest in my hand before,
And I know that sounds strange,
But it is comforting to know that someone other than me can appreciate such things.
I am an artist, and my hands are my gateway to the world,
They are the messenger,
The communicator,
And without them I'd be lost.
Hands tell stories,
They create,
They destroy,
But they can make beautiful things.
So let's make something beautiful and destroy it.