My hands are strange things around you. I can never figure out where to put them, what to do with them. I forget that they exist for more than touching skin. They are meant for more than holding you.
My fingers should have more purpose than to be intertwined with yours. They must. My fingers must have had a purpose before they encountered your pressure. Before they grew a mind of their own and wandered into this.
Your hands are more than fingerprints. Fingerprints only show the past. They show the things you’ve felt, what you used to love. Your hands leave me with static touch.
I see them with purpose as your knuckles tightly grip the things you want. There are moments when the things you want pull and tear while trying to get away from you. It’s when you lessen the hold it stays. I can see the lightness of your open hands allowing purpose to float down. I see them so simply and effortless resting against your side. Mine constantly fidget around you, as though they have never been still. They can sense the electricity in the room. A heightened sense of awareness, aware of themselves around you.
My hands feel heavy when I am close to you. I don’t know where to put them. They feel strange in my pocket. Pockets are for loose change and forgotten notes. I could never forget this, forget the weight of my hands. They seem to find yours so easily in the dark. Like gravity your hands pull mine in, so soft, so slowly. So… intentionally. My hands are your orbit, following them around.
You are not the sun. The sun is harsh, unrelenting, ever lasting as far as we can tell. We are not everlasting. Our hands together have a time limit, they will find another purpose. My hands find yours when they aren’t looking, when I am not conscious. I see them together under the stars, where there is less confusion. The night hides their purpose. The purpose of just being together.
My hands are safe, something to be played with. They are far away from my heart and that’s where they will stay. My hands are next to yours shielding us from the outside, hiding safely from the world. Funny how these strange hands show belonging. We belong to ourselves, to each other. A band on confusing fingers indicates commitment. Clumsy hands searching for the other set, a pair to be more than only tonight. Hands with more purpose, not rushed hope.
My hands are looking and learning the lines of our palms. Markings of the future it helps to predict. I don’t know how to read them, don’t know if our future together is doomed or forever. I don’t know anything but that we have one, somewhere. We make infinity while our hands are together.
I don’t know where my hands go, I just know they fit into yours.