You Have Beautiful Hands

Hands love in their own mysterious way. Fist clinch in a bitter rage. With nothing to grasp but the comfort of themselves. Misaligned lines long for the warmth of another. Relaxed at the side of the waist, they reasonably wait. A single impulse, generously given by the shake of an hand. The grasp of shoulders and backs during hugs. Undoubtably waiting. Alone they sit. Hindsight of residual tasks. They speak by touch, often ignored. Granting the gift of pleasure, often receiving nothing in return. Emotions bottled up, pointing fingers. Whose to blame. Curled up fist flung through the air. A direct reflection of one another. Unable to keep what's felt on the inside. They soon long for another. Just like them. A hand to hold instead of the bittersweet loneliness of sitting by each other's side