I.
newly washed
with the fresh smell of soap,
the hand breaks into
a lavender bouquet:
some petals lilac
some blue, but all
blossom joyfully,
happy to be smelling clean.
II.
just stopping to jot down
some crooked and twisted shapes,
fingers are covered with dirty
black ink.
white paper covered
with black fingerprints
which decorate it,
which show the owner, the
identity
of a masterpiece.
III.
a
golden ring, shining
years
ago,
smoothly slid along its way
to a
fine and fragile finger.
now,
now,
both the finger and the ring
are dull and time-worn
like an old lady.
both don’t sparkle,
but always remember
the old dusty days
they spent together.
IV.
his
hands are
wrapped
with loose wristbands
orange,
blue and sloppy,
unlike his soul,
unlike his soul,
which
is dark and cloudy.
his
fingers live on a world full
of
contradicting black and white keys,
their
determined fingers
find
a melody
to
impress the sun
so
that
it
decides one day
to
wink at his soul.
V.
the
tension of your
gently
shaking fingers
soothes
the rough uneasiness
of
your mind
as
the warmth, flowing
from
the soft spot
where
your hands connect with his,
creates
your only source
of
safety.
