Gripped

Lips speak of love, but hands show it.

Dry, wrinkled fingertips smelling slightly of something unnatural put away the final dishes at dinnertime. Soft, warm hands charged with standing hairs on the back fold through clean clothes on the weekend. Ice-cold hands, made so in a moment by the first touch of others, hold still against the sudden chill, waiting for warmth.

Lips will say what they may. Hands have no need of words. They have no way of hiding their truth--for better or worse. Their place is one of action, not proclaiming right or wrong nor defending either.

Hands are meant for more. The full grip of their purpose often goes unnoticed, just as it should. Hands are not made to be noticed, admired, considered--but to feel. And when they do all they do just as it should be done, words fail anyway. Words lose their hold, one they never truly knew.