You can do so much with your hands. Simple bone, muscle, tendons, blood, a simple combination of the right features and a masterpiece is created, maybe not the most beautiful, but the most useful, practical art, one that can enable a human to do what was once impossible in the earlier years of the world.
With your hands you can create something wonderful, and destroy it in an instant, in a way, hands are a double edged sword, both for making, and killing. Breaking and fixing.
And right now, I could do with some maintenance. My own hands cannot do the job, for I cannot hold myself to keep me warm and secure, I cannot sooth my sorrows with reassuring pats, for I know it is fake coming from someone like me, I cannot pick up the pieces of a shattered soul and place them together once more, I have tried, and now my flesh is shredded and steel is worn.
I cannot fix myself.
No matter how tightly I grip my shoulders, no matter how softly I caress my hair, I only leave bruises and a tangled mess. Warmth refuses to enfold me in its embrace, and I shudder in the cold I am left with. My hands cannot feel the uneven beat of my heart for they went numb long ago.
Curled up in this prison of solitude, cast into the emptiness of my own free will, I linger in the past, am trapped by its warm fingers that curl around my mind, but do not spread their warmth any further.
Those hands that I long for, I can only find in dreams, that touch that I crave, I can only face the withdrawal. Longer than any passing season, my time is frozen without you, yet it stretches too far for me to see. A time with no you, a time made up of dreams and forgotten memories.
How I long for the simple art of your hands, warm and soothing.
How I long for their touch.