Subway hands

One glove off, flopping over a measly hold,

What are the fingers typing away?

While faded henna hands hastily sketch monochromatic graphics,

A drizzle from an ice cream sundae dangerously sliding down your wrist.

Another pair fret over an outrageously tight engagement ring,

A hold on the yoga mat and a lover’s arm akin,

Fingers gathered in between thighs while a pearl-decorated

wrist tucks under a twisted arm around the pole.

Something cinematic about those bright yellow nails

grazing across the back of your palm, taking care of an itch,

An arrangement so reassuring with the way your hand envelops the other wrist in comfort,

Five tentacular projections embellished with goth jewellery, almost paranormal,

What do think about when staring at your palms like that?

Do you wish for a better partner? Good sleep?

World domination?

The urgency of tapping fingers, free of wrinkles,

ready to bolt in rush hour, accompany the body it is attached to,

Another pair of hands to two separate bodies, dancing around the bush, enjoying a game of courtship, with feeble touches and hinted gestures, careful thoughts and delicate approaches, foreseeing an intimately warm hold after,

A set of peeking hands from a mauve winter coat, fisted to generate further heat, silently enjoying the vociferous weather at last,

Something reassuring about linked pinkies,

That something as dainty as your little finger could provide you with relief and solace with the slightest touch.

A picture perfect composition, a still life if you will,

with a hearty bunch of roses being heedfully held by the euphoric receiver,

Tips pressed against the pane, knuckles growing white with every jerky turn,

while the other hand holds on to the bag strap for dear life.

How do you trust one finger to give support to that pretty little head of yours

while you bask in the glory of your superfluous dream?

Holding remnants of a pizza slice with glistening grease coated digits,

And a hand diverse in its colour by itself, akin to the clothing adorning it.

Shimmering hands everywhere, lotions lathered briskly,

The subtle self-care coming through, almost salacious in its innocent nature,

The undying support of one hand, mourning the loss

of the other in memory but resilient in its being,

A testimony to aging, when the skin loses its porcelain reflectivity, inasmuch as these hands have known time, they have seen the world, they have lived.

They have lived ferociously, undaunted and unapologetic.