hands

my hands
were not meant for holding.
but spilling
and scalding
scraping hair back from my heated forehead.
no
caressing
or delicately hovering
over your back.
i have calluses
from driving my car too fast
the nails
chip away
like old, rotten paint.
but dug into your skin
all the same.
i worked them
and washed them
til they cracked and bled
from the knuckles.
these truly
ugly specimens
have held foreign bodies
and stroked dear cheeks--
you met them,
once
in the darkness of the club
and our charming reversion
to formality
before the kiss and the crush.

and in the morning,
you turned them over in your great paws
examined their scars
and their sores.
they are not beautiful hands
and now
neither are they yours.

Reviews

[celyn]

you're too good. lets do something soon.