They will tell you more about me than I am able to articulate. They will tell you more about me than I want you to know. They have the power to touch you. They have to power to hurt you. They have the power to tease you and to please you. They can feed you, heal you, comfort you and sing to you. They identify me in a way that nothing else can. They tell you what music I like. They tell you my mood. They tell you who I am.
And yet …
They are not mentioned when describing me. They are not mentioned when complimenting me. They are not mentioned. The sonnets, odes, songs and ballads written in their honour could be counted on one of them.
My hands tap out the beat on my knees or on a table when a rhythm has caught my ear. My hands scrunch into fists when I strongly disagree, and open, palms up, when I am with you the whole way. My hands push back my hair when I am nervous or uncomfortable, play with my necklace when I am bored and hide in my pockets when I walk past strangers. My hands play the melody while I sing your lullaby, reach out to brush your cheek when your smile makes me want you closer, and squeeze the back of your neck when I lean in for a kiss.
I can work the muscles of my face into a smile, frown or look of concern. I can even change the glint in my eyes, but I cannot control my hands and look natural. I give all my feelings away through my hands; how they flow, stutter or lay can call out the bluff on my face.
I may say that I do not want the last piece of pizza, but my hand will be rubbing my neck to cry out that I am still hungry. I may say that I am happy you only want friendship, but my fingers will curl around my thumb to show you the lie.
I can stare into your eyes for days, taste your lips for years and listen to your voice for decades, but I can hold your hand for eternity. The hands are a window to the soul that make the eyes look like frosted glass.
I will not offer my hands lightly.
If I hold your hand in mine, I am wrapping my soul around yours.