Lately, my hands smell nothing like roses or lily. It’s more of a summer love, yellow tint that stretches across them. I was told to observe them, keenly: how they reciprocated to smiles, touch and words. They say it becomes lucid enough to judge someone. Should we choose lovers by virtue of their hands? And sprain ours, later, to pin it to our chest; to shroud it under the black winter jacket?
There were so many who invaded the empty hollow spaces. Bringing out the best in me. Or, I believe, I looked at the brighter side, after all these years of prejudice. I adored them: the fearful ones, the shaky ones, the forceful ones, the gentle, flirty ones, the coarse ones, the trembling ones. No matter how manly a man is -the wrist’ll stay beautiful. I saw those hands more often than their lips or eyes. And I guess, I spent most of my childhood touching hands rather than feet.
It was during the seven seasons, they came smiling offering help when I fell in the blue river. Jivey, crazy, passionate. Putting me on a pedestal, nurturing my self-esteem, to explore the shaky ones.
These were casual, cool, elicit, making my heart pound, with a little brush unsurety of what laid ahead or of me and more. And I chased the gentle ones.
They always worked in fury, celerity, perfection, pride. Over confident, to unmatch us. Fighting, time and again, for the right: forceful ones.
Mortifying were the coarse ones: Unveiling, rash, thoughtless enough to ensure me no chance of safety, warmth or serenity, yet providing with the right amount of pressure between the grip.
Slowly I met the trembling ones, soothing the brokenness possessed by me, the petals I held. Fearful of breaking under the slightest pressure, whilst we were tearing at each others wound. We sweared to fathom, contemplate what’ll keep us united and separate, hardly realizing, we, the broken ones are the strongest, busy securing ourselves in the comfort of brokenness, never to change, we broke it off.