hands that can manage

that can point and direct

that can move and convey

are not hands meant for loving

 

for they cannot hash out old memories

and their palms (much like their slopes) are too slippery to hold a heart

and just like eyes that twinkle like burning stars

& feet that dance on the down beat

these things were not meant for me.

 

the boys only feel what they can’t see

painting pictures of what i can be

so much that i pity you if you fall for me

i was not made to be loved conditionally—

as my lover you have to choose me over me

 

or else you’ll never get to know me

yet know enough that you’ll never get over me—

label me as your favorite tragedy

the disaster that ended before it could fathom its beginning

 

because your hands were made to manage to manage and i cannot be controlled

open your twinkling eyes before your light goes dull

you’ll need it to find your way home

 

away from me and ideas of what could be

if only you trusted me as much as you love your version of me

maybe then you’d learn that your hands are meant to manage

not to recreate.