Hold out your hand.
Examine the creases of your well-read book
Watch the soft winkles travel, patternless.
Think each line is a lie told.
Trace each skin valley and you’ll remember
The person the hurt the feeling.
Engraved in your being
For all to see.
They may trace yours and remember.
Mountains form
Hands grow calloused.
From many lies growing, forming.
You my curl your fingers to hide
A fist unwilling to reveal
The wrinkles in your story.
Love the hands?
That touch,
It pains.
Jessinia Ruff 