To touch and feel;

To rub your eyes when you have to wake up before the birds,

This simple sensation reminds you that you’re still human!

A firm hand-shake saying a formal farewell,

Whilst with others you fold into their touch,

Their hands embracing all of you as you run into their greeting.

The intricacies of the innate and mundane;

From the clockwise twists, to the turning over of an exposed palm;

From moments of frantic digging with cupped hands, all the way to pushing through

heel first with flexion and responding fingers.


The language of the hands.

What are yours saying right now?

Do both hands speak the same language?

What happens if two hands disagree with one another?

Some peoples’ hands speak louder than their own voices!

The volume of the words can’t match the impromptu gestures;

 The self-conscious twiddling, incessant tapping or even nervous ear-pulling.

What happens if you sit on your hands?

Can you still find the words?


Clenched fists or open palms,

The individual stamp of a fingerprint;

On the back of your hand there’s the tiny scar from that injection when you were little

And you are still trying to find your lifeline, let alone read it!

A mass of unique indents and spindles that fade into the skin.

Long pianist’s fingers or stubby ones like your Grandfather?


To touch and feel;

To reach for

 As you come towards me and your fingers wrap around mine.

Watching the dance of two hands

Searching, folding, tracing and holding;

One of them yours and one of them mine.

Linking, caressing, twisting and resting;

Mapping out the surfaces of the skin,

Echoing whispers, laughs and the unspoken.


The imprints left

The memory of touch;

What do the hands remember?


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