Clumsy and Unforgiving

When I hear the phrase,

“Your hands fit perfectly into mine” or

“It fits when our fingers intertwine”

I look at my own and I look at yours

and I think — when do they not?

 

Each and every hand is the same

Maybe with a difference in the span or in the tan

But they have the power to hold, to touch

To feel that much

It’s amazing

And the truth is: they’re nothing special –

they’re      just      hands.

 

I know my hands will fit into yours–

even without testing it first.

I know our fingers will be one–

even without asking you to.

 

But it will never be the same, will it?

You will never feel this way, won’t you?

Maybe the phrase should’ve been

“I hope your hands will feel at home in mine”

Cause my hands find home in yours.

But yours gets homesick, always longing to be elsewhere.

Because no matter how much I beg

Or how long my eyes gaze

Into yours,

Your hands do not lie

I am not the answer to the “why” in your heart.

I am not the piece you’ve been longing to find.

I am not the home that you want.

 

I wish I could be.

If it was that simple,

I would rearrange the evening sky

And align constellations for you to trace it in my eyes.

I would make the clouds disappear

So you would see nothing — nothing but the sun.

But I can’t.

And I know, someone out there can.

And she might even be better at it.

 

But for now, my hands are only good at ruining the art piece you have right in front of you.

Clumsy and unforgiving, they wreck things on a daily basis.

They do not trust the things they hold. They are fragile when it is cold.

These hands were never good at drawing straight lines nor were they good at writing sad poetry about the other halves they never met.

 

They never knew how to sew

and that’s why I cannot patch up the stars.

They might accidentally throw the clouds away

when other people might want to glance at them.

And they’re not like hers.

And hers are not like mine.

 

These are my hands. Mine alone.

 

This is why:

I do not grieve. These tears will dry.

I do not weep. These songs will pass.

It’s a sadness I cannot prescribe drugs for because I know,

And I hold on to the hope that someday the hands that will warm up mine

Will feel safe and at home in mine.

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