Alien Hand Syndrome

Forgive me, my hands can’t comprehend boundaries – the grass is much greener near new splendid things – fresh textures, smooth suggestions to best her best desire to remain dressed for most the night (except one light my hands would not shut off so I could see the rare bird take her flight). Unlike me my hands are feeling, always super interceding conversations on our states of being, crossing rivulets of jeans or trekking miles of snow white skin – wondrous to know, to just take in, poetic braille of bends in bones and lines grown in on wrinkled clothes. They flutter just like nervous cranes – my hands, who like to stay up late enough to finally notice they’ve stopped moving, rested on you.

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~ by perfectionatrix on January 30, 2012.

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