Hands are scrunched paper,
That write the words that do not matter.
They unfurl and knuckles squeak
And those words begin to speak,
But still, they do not matter.
If I think of you and put you in that ink,
They transpose, thick with meaning.

Whisper you’re anxious to the moon
When the night has come
In her purple dress.
And fade back into peaches
Of the dawn that starts
Where the pain never ended.