My Hands

My hands move

like ink

learning the page

unhurried

intentional

each touch deciding

where the story deepens

I feel the weight

of every pause

the quiet confidence

of knowing

there is no need

to rush meaning

I trace you

as if you are

worth reading twice

• i want that i read you every day -

pressure changing

with instinct

lines growing darker

where i linger

You become language

beneath my fingers

responsive

open

holding still

so I can be precise

By the time

we reach the end

nothing is left blank

Not because I

filled every space

but because

my slow hands

knew exactly

where to stop