Bless the Lock and Key

Hands are so amazing.

Well, that word isn't really enough to cover it.

The amount of nerves just waiting underneath our skin to help us comprehend endless combinations of textures and temperatures.

The lines that match the folds in your skin, as if they were smooth until the very day you were born while your fists clenched for the first time.

The knots you can tie and the apples you can peel and the pages you can turn and the windows you can open and the strings you can pluck.

A method of communication, a way to express ourselves through gestures.

The soft heat of a hand cupping your cheek.

Goosebumps spread as fingers brush your shoulder.

Trust spread between two lovers as a hand slips down skin.

My own hands, more cold than the rest of my body. More susceptible to fidgeting and often needing something to occupy themselves with.

My own hands, which fumble with zippers and miss simple catches.

My own hands, which have reached out to you with my heart.

And my own hands, which desperately scooped up the torn shreds of that very heart from amongst the wreckage you casually swept aside when you left.