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Her Hands
Finally, I can say I found them,
or should I say, "They found me?"
The wonderful fingers
as they linger.
They rub me the right way
rather than be a sharp bouquet.
She holds out her beautiful nails to me.
I give them love.
Her hands nestle me.
Running through my hair
as I cry, "Why does some treat me unfair?"
Slender.
Loving.
These hands are the key to holding one thing.

Yet, they are still searching.
Reaching for love.
They scream, "Why won't anyone love me?"
Grasping at nothing but the past.
Pulling at the invisible binds.
Many wonder how can I love her hands.
I know I have done her wrong...
in many ways than one.
Honestly, the least I can do is tell her, "We are past the phone."
We grab for each other by the wrist.
As I give each hand a kiss.
The past may have gone off the hinges.
But, her hands have given me the warmth of good memories.
Past her imperfection of her fingers
to the smoothness of her palms etched with scars of her tragedies.
They are my perfect remedy.
-Snow that flutters down like feathers