Your hands betray you.
Sweetly they materialize at the ends of your wrists,
while you gawk in anxious surprise.
In more intense moments your hands call the shots–
clenched by your sides, allowing your eyes to write the story.
Fists of triumph, fists of rage, confusion, pain.
Flawless communication without words.
Hands unable to contain your inner warmth.
Heat as if you’ve somehow grasped the sun.
Planetary symbol of the mind, the self, the cosmic whole,
Befitting you—the meditator, seeking the house of truth.
One hand holds another,
knitted together with interlocking flexibility.
A finger trap, getting tighter as the distance grows between us.
Ultimately pulled asunder. Z~