So much is said by the hands;

Whole conversations, whole languages

Are captured in the bowl of cupped hands.

Gestures and waves all elude to subtle clues

Giving insight that was not intended.

The fingers, so long and tapered

So slender and graceful

Trail through the air, tracing a path of hidden meaning.

Each nail a perfect pink slip

The white almost invisible, having been bitten to the quick

Or long and polished and well-cared-for:

With black chipped varnish

Or a pearly pink glow.

With ink stains and writing calluses and the imprint of reminders

Or the rough calluses of labour, the firm skin toughened and hardened.

Fingers which fiddle at a loose thread,

Or wring each other in agitation,

Fingers which stray too close to the teeth, which tear into them,

Destroying and ripping,

Without noticing.

Hands tell their own story.