My work does not allow me to be light on my hands.
Calluses bubble and dissipate at a roiling boil,
and the nails are rarely not shortened to stumps by nervous canines.
And though it may be nice to keep them together with polish and wristwatches,
a day will come where these chipped digits will become tumors when viewed through a mirror.
I have 2 perfectly functioning eyes. In, fact, I'm told they're 20/20.
And though it is true that I miss the texture of your face when you go back north,
to spend months without me in the cold,
though it is true that I shiver and quake to recall the exact colors that you placed after your signature,
though it is true that I will hunt for hours to find one specific photograph,
what cuts me in two is how cold my hand feels without yours next to it.
On long car rides like this one, I get lost in thought;
I see with my hands
I see first your body next to mine, hands clasped.
Only after do I see those around us
Only after do I see a sky full of stars
/Only after/ do I look inward
and see happiness
Because I could use my /eyes/ to read every book in the world
But I will always prefer the feel of your /hand/ alighting softly on my back
Because your hand makes me see more than my eyes ever have
see the things that count.
