Thursday, October 7, 2010

Day 3: I Wanna Hold Your Hand

I love hands.
To look at them. To hold them.
They say so much.
And the more weathered the hand, the better.
I love to run my fingers along the lines.
All those lines.
Where do they come from?
Some lines are faint, some are deep ridges.
Some hands are soft and smooth.
Some are dry and abrasive.
Some have paper cuts, some have burn marks.
Some have short fingernails that have been eaten away.
Some have long fingernails that feel good in your hair, scratching your head.
They tell a story, your story.
For me, the most intimate thing in the world is holding someone’s hand.

2 comments:

  1. I used to like pushing on my grandma's veins... sound gross but, was so soft and squishy! To this day I remember her hands and she died when I was 7. :)

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  2. So funny you should say that. My grandfather's hands were my favourite hands. He actually lost two fingers on one in a bad accident. For some reason, that was the hand I chose to hold when I sat beside him (which I often did).

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