Hands
shows a story of the person,
the years they worked off for
how old and the stories written on
their palms, calloused from working.
Perfectly interlocking fingers with
another hand, loving the rough scars
brushed against the palm like a paint brush.
Lines engraved onto our palms,
like strings of our own lives,
wrapped around our fingers and our palms.
Slowly slipping out of our fingertips.
Your hands were like love,
caressing my face delicately.
Your arms wrapped around me,
slowly unraveling like strings,
that's wrapped around a lie
to be discovered a truth.
We were trying so hard
to mold our hands together.
To mold our broken hearts.
we were in love, our 'I like you.'
Became our 'I love you.'
We had said it so much,
That we slowly forgotten how
our love story began and
started to remembered,
how it ended.
Hands detached.
We let go.
We part ways.
Hands shows a story of the person, the years they worked off
5 faves
·
Apr 7, 2015 3:49pm
