If I were to explain the reason behind the mismatch of my mouth and hands,
I would only say this: displacement.

I choose to answer what I cannot hold.  
I wind up singing instead of touching.

Surely you can remember the time
I asked for your permission; you looked at me strange,

and not in a way that inspires
Freedom. What can I do except laugh?

Dare I turn this itch to clasp into something
as deliberate and precise as words?

Dare I spit volumes instead of throwing pebbles
and watch them sink instead of creating ripples?

When we argue, and I extend my arms to drive a point home,
it is only because it is better than the alternative, which is concession.

Inhale exhale i n h a l e   e   x  h  a  l  e
in lieu of our thumbs stroking the other.

I know when to keep my silence,
but forgive me when my hands do not know any better

than to shake and disturb.