Hands

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.