Letter to your tender hands from my open palms
Just another day — on my usual strolls, I heard the wind murmuring to the sunflowers about a pair of tender hands. Hands — I found myself eavesdropping, and the wind caught me, stealing their secrets into mine. Guilty of this soft theft, she punished me — cursed me with the memory of roads never taken, with the map of your skin drawn in a language my fingers never learned. And thus — Do your hands hold the warmth of hibiscus blooms at dawn? Where your engravings should be, I hold their antonyms — ghosts pressed into skin. I have carried that sentence in silence. Each night, when curiosity keeps me wide-eyed, sewing stars into quiet questions: Do your hands shape the quiet art I know? Does the cold find them, cruel and slow? Do butterflies dream in your palms’ soft crease? Who holds them now, when mine find no peace? Does wax ebb and flow, candlelight’s prayer, When your hands rise up through the silent air? How do I teach my palms to burn — Not with fire, but with warmth ...