There’s something special about hands.
I don’t know what or why or even where it comes from
but I could sit
stare
and watch hands move
and make and sooth
and create and tie
and wash and dry
and manufacture magic
out of the pure nothingness the air provides them
when they illustrate
the words
that float from your lips.
There are stories, so many stories
in the wrinkles of palms
and the tiny smiles where your thumb’s knuckle
decides to bend.
What will these hands say, when roughed and scarred 
and wrinkled and slowly clenched closed?
What, when our bodies pull our fingers to a quiet fist
in a final act of defiance against the aging we are fighting,
will those stories be?
These hands will be cut and burned and blackened
with ash as we sift through
what we set fire to.
We are the remains
when the excuses have been burned down
and the colors of life will hide under 
our fingernails.
We are these hands
tough but gentle and strong but soft.
We
like they
were made for building and holding
painting and writing
and drawing inkless art
on the canvas of bare skin.
Listen to the words my hands say
as they trace the lines of yours,
hear the whispers as they cartwheel
down your back.
These hands tell stories
and I’ll spend my life wondering
what your hands
tell my hands
when your fingers
find my fingers
and wrap tightly around.

-TUMBLR <3 tyler knott