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.