i remember hands
when what they held was nothing
... and that absence was innocence
to all who were touched therewith. then--toil, sorrows, years bringing decay stayed far enough away to preserve the integrity with which these delicate members upon birth were imbued.
touch was so much simpler then, when we were unaware of all the secrets it could convey, when secrets were spoken in confident trust.
but now, watching stained fingers grace lettered keys in effort to trade pained wisdom for peace, all is held in these hands.. and this skin is wishing for the beautiful bliss that comes in pure, innocent touch.
nothing anymore is pure, it seems. when i feel your skin on mine, it's tears falling on open wounds, and my hands on yours is ripping marrow from bones. i cry to feel what made touching once so allowable that shadowed eyes never questioned obvious motives.
oh, but when touch was simple we were also spared the infinte joy felt from even slight brushes. when minds are met on similar planes and can grow no closer, then these fallen hands with yours are made perfect once again. comfort & comforted, we are both reborn in soft skin, holding in this moment not just hands, but everything the other was, is, will be.. without fear.