La huella que dejas

Rough

My hands are too rough to hold yours.
They have been holding an invisible rope that was leading me to any place.

There's no promise that my weaker fingers can keep or you can trust.
My promises were made of glass, and you need more than this weakness, more than this lack of light, more than a fake land.

You can't count on me.
I can't be somebody you can feel peace with.
Everything in me is air.