The Things I Can't Touch

What It Means to Have Hands and Be Alive

There is something intangible about this world

               —some bit of magic—

beyond my fingers that can only stoke the surface.

My grasp itches for meaning,

to hold life in my hands and

                squeeze

feel sweet humanity run down my arms like water.

I want to press my palms on the display of time,

vibrations through veins

and beats between breaths,

sensing every second as it ticks by.

I need to see if the sun shines differently on my skin as I pass between borders,

if the air is heavier or lighter as I span through histories.

My fingernails are meant to dig through the dirt of our universe

unearth bones and

                 battles and

                 beauty.

I want to hold hands with our stories,

names and lives that created families and

                 love

in languages and tongues I've never heard of.

To drag my fingers across each starry night,

and taste the constellations across cheekbones.

These hands must do more than destroy;

let the blisters and burns of reality become reminders of my past,

so softness and gentleness can mark my future.

I long to reach the parts of this world that are just outside my horizon.

To touch, to hold, to feel.