It’s always the hands.

I pay attention to your fingers.
The way they move and grip.

I see the scars and wonder what happened.
But, I’ll never ask.

Do you pick your fingers, like I do?

I watch your thumbs, the way the knuckle bends.

It’s always the hands.

I can respect the calluses and the dirt under the nails.

Do they crack in the winter?

I notice the winkles and the lines.

A smoker. Because the fingertips are stained, but only two of them.

What do you smoke?

I see the ring you fidget with when you hold your drink.

What calms you when you’re anxious?

It’s always the hands.

- R. Short