Without a single word,
They tell their stories—
Years spent apart,
Yet yearning to meet.

Fingers trace memories,
Whispers of time gone by,
Silent but profound,
In their gentle touch, they sigh.

They speak of love and loss,
Of moments slipped through sand,
A timeless conversation,
In the language of hands.

do hands deserve fingers
if they do not hold
do ears deserve sound
if they do not listen
do eyes deserve sight
if they do not see

do you deserve love
if you broke me

My earrings are handmade by hands that don’t love me.
The fingers that bent metal into joyous, beautiful shapes were my own.
But I struggle to love those hands.
I struggle to love the body or mind attached to them too.

I was raised by hands that don’t love me.
Ever since I was small, I’ve known somewhere
that my tiny fingers were only valued
once they grew into working hands.

Can you hold my hand so I don't fall?
Even though happiness pays me,
Like she owes me debt,
Sadness still comes a'knocking,
Looking for little bills and floor pennies.
Because I didn't put money,
In his street jam cup.
Though he'd just buy bottles of melancholy with it.

Why I never heard music so tasteful,
With a woman so graceful.
Falling to sleep in her arms,
As the choirs gently serenade us.
Lip to lip as the lights dim,
Hand on her thigh, just how she likes it.
I'll never be able to love you the same,
Not after feeling you like this.

Mold me


Like clay that can be recycled,
Then formed into something new.
This clay, like a rebirth, now loved,
This new reinvention shows the new you.
Like in the potter’s hands, he molds a beautiful shape,
One that once was just a lump of clay.
The potter’s hands can make this art anew, escape—
Like helping shape someone’s life one day.
We are like clay, being worked and formed.
This process is like the improvement of oneself.
Unlike the piece that once was unformed,
Now becomes something beautiful to display on a shelf.

What's the sound of one hand clapping?
He asked, I responded,
I know not the sound of a single hand clapping.
Then he slapped me across the face, smiled and said,
That my friend is the sound, now learn before somebody else teaches you.

I squeezed your hand,
Once to show I was pleasantly surprised,
After all it's been how long since I've felt this feeling?

I squeezed it twice,
To let you know I love you with a passion I've never known before,
But I don't think you picked up on it.

__

Genuine friends are much rarer than the fingers on
one hand — as only a handful can be counted upon.
They could be as numerous as the stars scattered
across a moonlit expanse, yet only a select few truly
cast their glow upon our lives.

In these vacant palms — cradled by the essence of my aspirations;
I clung to you with every enduring emotion, trembling and slick
with the weight of nostalgia, far beyond what could be deemed
ordinary, or wise in grasping at faded recollections.

My throat feels parched; I gulped down a swarm of love bugs,
hoping to replenish the affection I’ve lost — lost lovers. My
fingers bear the scars of nervous habits, raw and gnawed down
to the quick; the restless heart fears that the sharpness of love
might not pierce me as it once did.