My hands stretch out to find something as if my palms inhale fresh air under a tree facing the morning sun and try to follow the smell. It is searching for something, it always has since birth. And don’t confuse it with another love poem, for it’s not another hand or the hot coffee with chocolaty heart swimming over the surface, which you sip in seconds. My hands don’t lust for things or people or light in closed glass vessels trying to escape in darkness, neither does it enjoy heat on a cold day. Some days it just wants to stay numb.

My hands smell and silence is its favourite scent. For some reasons strange it finds solace in it. Maybe, these criss-cross and thousand crossroads(palm lines) have always wanted to reach it while I searched for life and death and money in these narrow lanes where none can walk. Somehow it smelled silence in music without words, in anger with tears, in photographs, and in abandoned homes where ghost reside. Those bricks and words and boundaries of civilisation attracted it and it questioned, do these extend to the sky?

It remembers people by their texture and behaves differently with everyone. Sometimes there are handshakes and other times there are hugs, then there are zipped hands but it’s always feelings hand remember. On cold days it’s warmth and on days hot it hardly matters, for hands are always too tired or too sweaty and lazy enough to feel, it surrenders. It saves the first rain as best memory and plays the guitar when exposed to songs even if it doesn’t know to play one. It looks for scars to dive into feelings, in broken parts, there are stories and silence after they are heard.

My hands want to find answers for nothing in crumpled sheets scribbled with feelings and rants in inked circles choking paper. It wants to travel on every map that somehow looks like the palm lines and it wants to fly like feather among the stars and turn black if that is all it takes to survive.

My hands are foolish. It behaves like a person, it wants to speak and talk and spin stories when all it can do is type. It wants to expand into people when all it can do is hold them tight, oh it wants too much for its size! It wants to travel through words to places not present on earth, it wants to play with star dust and leave marks on walls and books, and control the waves hitting the shore. My hands want to be superman I suppose and it masturbates sometimes, but I love my hands for they are kind. They have held old rusty hands while crossing roads and small dirty ones with a beautiful smile. My hands are warm said a blind man once, and alone said a writer and I see my hands stretching out to connect with cosmos and fall for the sight every time, I know my hands are real fighter.

-The Puzzle Maker

PS: maybe, I am my hands. 😛




15 thoughts on “Hands

  1. Some intense thinking and introspection has borne this and much deliberately depicted what we may miss to notice. Mundane yet mysterious as the writing drifts stanza after stanza, there’s much to ponder over and I fail to infiltrate your mind; I so wish to dissect your thoughts.
    As aptly the post is fashioned, I see the really purpose defined extremely brilliantly.
    I am it, it is I. That’s all there is know, that’s all there is to mind.

    Liked by 2 people

  2. Puzzle Maker– on a whim I visited your page today because we were both blown away by Ari’s latest poem. I have just fallen under the spell of your last three pieces. I am enraptured over “My hands smell and silence is its favourite scent.” It is an honor to meet you and fell your words.

    Liked by 1 person

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