Handed Thoughts

You are

The stuff that slips through my hands,

The lights that bleeds through the gaps

In my fingers,

The water that pours along them,

And the wind that caresses

The worn out threads across my palms.

You, are what keeps them steady

And what makes them shake.

You, are the pathways

I have traced on them,

The spiraling roads,

The beaten trail,

The polished floors,

And the ones I am still treading on.

Still, I feel

There is more that I could call you,

For these thoughts

Are merely what my hands

Think of you.

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