Hands Alone

The ring finger has always been the most sensitive,
It searches for hairs grown backwards & thin,
It carries promise,
Sometimes an honor –
Other times a curse.

I would have saved it for you,
But I deliver no false gifts,
& You were only a fever-dream.

It avoided the blade, leaving the others
With their scars.
Needles through another,
Binding the contract in ink.

Neither burned, nor adorned,
My finger remained free –
To lead, punish or steal.
Rough & worn,
I never remember the shape
Of my father’s hands.

A life’s path,
A destiny –
Tangled, broken,
We have touched beautiful things
But left terrible wounds.
We build and destroy,
They never abandon me.

As sticky or cruel as
They’ve ever been –
They are still softer than my eyes –
Smoother than my tongue –
& Kinder than my thoughts.

I am glad to be alone.