i. hands

i. hands

the cold in my hands is an incurable disease i yearn to recover from. your hands are the insatiable warmth mine are looking for.

i know your fingers have grazed too many things, too many people to know the temperature of loss, but the heartbeats in my fingertips try to lead you home– where hands roam and grasp and fumble and feel and where the lines in our palms draw the paths in which our bodies move in the darkness. i want broken nails and fractured cuticles and wayward veins and calloused phalanges worn with words, i want it. i want it all. i want the lines of white in your fourth fingernail i want the wrinkles in your palm i want your wrists i want your arms i want your bruised knuckles and skipping tendons, all of it.

and if your hands have touched more than i will ever then so be it. let me travel up the veins in your forearms, run my fingers like blood to your heart, clasp them together like intertwining tapestry, a web that holds me willing victim. let me tingle my way across the back of your hand, leave my marks in trails up your skin and hope they last for the night. i want you, i want you to quicken the beating pulse in the ends of my fingers, tangle yourself into me, raise the goosebumps in my skin.

i want our threaded limbs and melded heat, i want our clashing bones, our burning skin, our fusing flesh, i want it, i want it all– i want you to hold my hands in yours and show me the way to home.

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