It’s cottony pink softness long gone,
as the years pass by.
Left, are the scars adorned by memory and inked,
in tales very few know.
The life these hands have carved,
toiled and sowed.
Regrets, they have,
held on far too long when they should have let go.
A fair share of caressing,
given and taken.
as they have been thrown in rage.
To where they have lifted up from the ground,
scraped and bleeding.
Tiresome, they have weighed the cost of dying,
against the hope of living.
They have brushed lips,
marking ownership of desire and love.
They have clenched in lack of patience,
allowing anger to build a wall.
Secured and protected from touch,
grows distant and reserved.
These hands grow old,
withered and tired.
Hands of Time.