Tuesday, 30 June 2015


I think I was in love with your hands,
more than anything else,
I was in love with those warm hands
that always found their way to my shoulder
while I was cooking in the kitchen
they knew, exactly how to make me feel loved

Hands don’t lie
and I could feel that your hands needed me
walking on the road, the way your hands
asked for my hands, without the need of the words;
it seemed too natural to be walking hand in hand.
Now, sometimes, while walking on the bridge,
I miss your hands.

Your hands didn’t know how to be angry and how to hurt
Your hands always reached out to me,
So when you’d kiss me, passionately,
your hands would just adjust themselves
somewhere near my shoulder,
it was indeed their favourite place
hands don’t need to be taught, they know it all
Hands know no politics, the language does,
hands don’t require a language, they have their own,
I know your hands looked for my hands at night,
and remember how even in the dark, they’d always manage to find them;
they’d fit perfectly— your hands into mine
and then when I was leaving and you kissed me a casual goodbye,
I could see your hands wanting to reach out to me, again
they somehow managed to caress a strand of careless lock on the nape of my neck
and then you withdrew your hands,
you taught them something, which wasn’t needed,  

My hands were used to your hands,
so now, when they don’t find them around,
when I cook, I wake up, I walk, and at night
they wonder what went wrong

that the hands disappeared.

1 comment: