My fingertips are wrinkled from dishes, I want them numb from guitar
I can feel everything. We used to call them prune hands but I have adapted the phrase to a fruit they know better
And as I’m raisin’ mine on nights that they are away and clasping them in gratitude with wet eyes on nights that we all sleep easy, I remember the joke you made
And something is still missing. Empathy, you said as we laughed that night without them.
And now I spend so many nights without them and without you and I’m aware now of why I was so tired for so long but
I’m still tired now. And nothing is slower. And no matter how tightly I press my hands together…
They are empty.
my prayers must go somewhere. I assume someone has found them. Washed ashore, as pristine as I spoke them, I hope. Every tear in tact.
All the sweetness and joy and ease and abundance that has lost course en route to me.
I miss you. I miss you but I’m happy now. I’m happy but I’m tired. I’m tired but I’m moving and although there is no machine to meet my needs in quite the right way:
:Wrinkled fingers from the waters that I take on each day.
:From the waterways that release between my own palms.
From the beginning I’ve been unbound – with wrists that know the difference between right and left but you…
Are your hands wet? Or does she still do them for you?
I remember the night I told you.
And why did it take an avalanche of crystals, water reflecting pain and pain and pain for you to realize how I needed you?
For so long there was a flood and you, you sat alone while I gathered two of this and two of that and when it came time to board I found