hands to hold

People help the people.

Muted we stay separate in a world of continual dissolution.

I forget sometimes that we're not meant to be alone.

Hands are cold by themselves if left untouched.

Warmth comes from holding on.

People help the people.


I urge myself to take my gloves off, to peel the bandaged dressing of shelter revealing the bare skin. The blue veins and my fingerprints. The unjewelled fingers, the nails that scratch and the empty cold palms of sweat.  Held together at the wrist, strong but small and dainty, easily broken. My hands have seen most and done many but they are wiped, slapped and withheld before they could really touch. If I undress them, if I expose them to the rain and the cold, they will shake then tighten and they will seek to hide in themselves or another thing. But eventually they will need to be used steadily apart, they will appear again, still bare. If it is still cold and raining, they will weather.  If it is warm and shining, they will appear unforced.  Open and eager. But not the weather, only my hands I can control. But not the wrinkles and the fleeing, only the action and feeling awaits me.  Unclenched, wet, slippery or unveiled warm, certain - either which way they are unsheathed and continuing. To be burnt or to be soothed, the skin on my hands heals.  Fresh layered or calloused, humbled by movement and time, not crippled but with purpose. My hands will need to appear again and again, this is life, ungloved.