My hands are rarely clean. They're covered in ink and notes, my own reusable notebook - I haven't lost it yet. In summer, they're dotted with stains from petals where my fiddling hands couldn't keep to themselves. In winter, they clench together and rub to try and stay warm. They dig in pockets through buttons and dust and scraps of paper. When I was small, they helped me learn the very workings of the world. They touch and they stroke and they hold.
They experience everything I do.
YOU ARE READING
As It Is
PoetryShort bits of writing I come up with in my everyday life - I try to see the world as pretty
