My Hands

I put my head down and stare up at the heavens.
Neatly rested on my small hands are the sights of circles of my [hidden] path.
Around and around, just like a circle. I can see a clearer picture. Will I come full circle?
I wonder what it is that I am supposed to see in these corporal constellations.
I trace the idea of my dreams, the visions of love and happiness that I build in my heart's mind.
I remember that each line I wear is a testament towards testing my will of survival, adaptation and growth.
The small impact I will have on the big universe.

I am such a reckless fool. I can’t help but want to taste, hear, see and feel everything that I come into contact with.
I am so damn inpatient. I stare, I turn, I anticipate.
I worry about things that are beyond my control and while I do this, I stare at my hands.

I feel like a child when I am near you.
Ever so silenced by the fact that a person like you has come into my world.
That you have delicately held my hand.
I do not mean to be rude, or seem like a bitch.
The fact remains that I have a lack of words to describe what it is that you may potentially do to me.

Shyly I fold my hands, and place them neatly back into my lap.
I want to hide.