Out of everything, it’s his hands that I remember the most.
Tan, supple skin spread over muscles taut like wire.

Hands like glory. Hands like revelation.

They have always seemed sturdy to me,
as reliable as the Sun rising in the East.
Your veins are rivers against the sandy banks of skin,
and I want to go swimming.
If I were to dive into you, I’d rather drown
than leave.

Hands like you are love. Hands like protect me.

You make a fist, and I think of earthquakes.
I think of rubble.
I think of fire.
A strength so great that it could ruin a person.
A touch so gentle that it could ruin a person.

Hands like destruction. Hands like demolition.

What’s the difference, anyways?
They’ve already ruined me.
My hands have been telling me their secrets,
whispering about how they yearn for your touch.
I have never wanted something as much as I want your fingers.
I reach out to touch you, fingers aching,
but I am not supposed to want this.
Instead, I clasp my hands together,
pretend that it is your warmth I feel.
Take me to your soft caress, to your anxious wringing -
I want to experience it all.
I can still feel your fingerprints on my back,
burning their pattern into my skin.
I can not wash them off. I did not ask for this.

Hands like touch me. Hands like I’m afraid that I will.

The first time that I saw the birthmark on your index finger,
I thought it was dirt.
That must be situational irony, or dramatic, or something,
since I can’t wash the image from my mind.
It’s okay, though.
I like that it looks like someone scribbled on you with brown marker.
Once I dreamed that we got married,
and now I can’t stop staring at the place where a ring would be.
I am afraid that I will never see what that looks like.
I am afraid that I will.

Hands like forever. Hands like I would follow you anywhere.

Your hands don’t belong to me.
They don’t long for mine.
There are no secret whispers coming from your fingertips.
I’ll say it again; I did not ask for this.
People fall in love and fall out of love everyday,
but we are different.
You reached into my chest and pulled out my heart,
claimed it for your own.
You are not like the rest.
And maybe that’s why I remember your hands so well,
because they hold all of my hope and desire.
They hold love. They are love.
Once it seemed like you wanted to touch me.
Once I was sure that I could see the
anguish in your fingers because they could not.

Hands like please don’t go. Hands like I love you.

All of my dreams are about your hands touching someone else.
I haven’t slept much lately. I miss you.
I miss your dumb birthmark.
I hope that you let your fingertips point you back to me.

Hands like goodbye, darling. Hands like come home soon.

—  Hands Like… | Chelsea Jean
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