Hands — Someone Else's, Doing Ordinary Things

I watch their hands pour coffee with steady grace,

fingers stained with life, the warmth rising slow.

In these simple motions, there's a quiet embrace—

a moment of magic in the space we both know.

They handle the mug like it’s crafted from dreams,

with ease that I long for, a connection I crave.

In the steam curling up, I imagine the seams

of what it might mean to be free and behave.

These hands tell a story in gestures so plain,

a dance of the mundane, their rhythm and flow.

I savor the warmth, feeling tethered by pain—

a longing for touch in a world filled with woe.