The Invisible Match

Hands..

Capturing times of
Craving.
Sunken in pictures
That remind me...

&

Remind me
Of you;

And as a separate notion,
How they remind me of love...

Hands.
Where grips are nerve signals meant,
Where scrapes and scratches claw as passion
And where skin grazes in connection.
Where soft warmth may touch to a face,
Or scoop entire bodies up
To be tucked in- consumed.

Where nudges coerce "love me".
And winter times cold, like this,
So cold...
How hands,
Can keep us warm.

And I think of your hands.
How I haven't really seen them, but a bit.
And I think of how they'd feel,
How some hands just hold you,
In a touch as though holding the entire world.

And no...
It's not the same already.
The thought of you holding me.
Now that I've finally listened my self up to you...

But My hands that hold my heart...
Some invisible form I don't yet know...

I feel them like strength.
Admiration.
Wisdom of day labors, sun, headaches,
And writing.

I hold "these hands", THIS notion
As the all encompassing
Manifest
Of that which we are-

That which we will always be.

You never showed your hands to me, but twice perhaps.
And so what of you of your eyes?

And yes, your heart.

It's not the same because
I really did realize
Day and day ago...
Just in time's need to let you
Go..

That never
Had you put
Your hands
In the pot.

And I assumed your sunken heart,
Burgundy with rot and disease eating away...
I thought that was accidental only,
How THAT, dropped in.

And that's when it hit,
Illusionist,
No heart,
No hands,
No eyes.

That's when it hit.

It was never there.
Never in the same room.
Breathing in
The best
Of all lies.

Your hands
Meant something
Because they meant something to me.
Now I see,
It was only your illusion
That made them mean anything to me...

Difference is now.
Illusions up.
Hands are out.

And now,
I see,
What I need to you.

You never
Had a hand
At all.