These hands that I watched clenched in reckless and angry youth, soften into mature and gentle openness.
On which innumerable scars tell stories of hard work, old conflicts.
These hands that paired with a wink, automatically rest on my leg when I am your passenger.
That grip and pull and carry weight; cradle babies, stroke hair, rub backs.
These hands that lovingly create our favourite meals, choose the sweetest gifts, pour the perfect glass of wine.
That have wiped my tears, lifted my chin when I’m broken.
Grasped my hand, held me up.
Led me out of chaos and nightmares; away from things that hurt.
These hands that still reach for mine when we walk side-by-side.
That go from being tough with masculine purpose to delicate and lost in intimate caress.
These hands that find their place on my hip every night to ease me into blissful sleep.
I know these hands better than I know my own.