HANDS

My hands are old spiders Long and delicate with wear Cracked nail polish And a miniscule scar from a wasp bite Ingrained, musician’s hands Cracking and wise They know how things are done, even when my heart is absent From the time Rough and dry not like a girls, They never were what was meant to be My hands are maps of life lived too soon Of unfulfilled dreams And wistful solitude They hold my face a million times as I fail to cry They wonder hopelessly waiting to touch someone who’s Not here at this moment in time They scratch and write and fondle and stretch My hands are me Am I my hands? Are me am I my hands I’d like to be a little less than that….