my hands are thin and nervous.
gaps start between my fingers
if i’ve been
for too long.
i’ve lost some feeling
on the tips of my thumb and pointer finger
from flipping hot tortillas or
pulling bagels from the toaster oven,
but the rest of my fingertips
are so sensitive i swear they can feel sound.
sometimes i dream about tracing
the curve of your cheek with them.
i remember the last time i did that,
how your face felt warm beneath
my (always cold) hands, how
my whole universe narrowed
to those tiny points of contact,
how on a microscopic level some molecules
were dragged from the surface
of your skin to the surface of mine.
sometimes my hands get to wandering.
i think yours do, too.
i’ve learned to do my nails, then,
or practice embroidery or glass painting.
something to keep my hands busy
instead of destroying.
tonight, i looked down at my hands,
covered in red and yellow paint,
and hoped that your hands were all right,
resting, calm, and safe
from the cold march night
wherever you are. my fingers ache
from the words they’ve typed for you.