Waltz of exchanging hands

My hands are not to be trusted,
not when it's so easy to spill tea
and I used to get all flustered
when you were any closer to me.

Not when they looked for every excuse
to have you under their touch,
both a craving and muse
of lines that said too little and too much.

Not when they can hurt someone
as much as they can love them
but in the end, what's done is done
scratched a boy when they need a man.

Not when they dont feel so cold
but your pocket seems like the only shelter
not caring if the move is bold,
because they just didn't know better.

Not when they thought they could slap
all those others across the face
and then give you a map
of the ways you walked to my grace.

Not when they would itch and tremble
at the dream of stroking your hair,
back of the neck and temple
just any time, anywhere.

Not when they held on to the memory
of contact out of ill will
that I liked to think of in a scenery
with us climbing up a high hill.

10/01/2018