The Language of Hands

The Language of Hands

They speak without tongues,

soft syllables pressed in palms,

a grammar of warmth,

where fingers fold like paragraphs,

and silence becomes fluent.

A touch is a sentence—

sometimes tender, sometimes trembling,

sometimes a question carved

in the hollow of another’s skin.

The reply comes in pressure,

a squeeze, a release,

an unspoken "I hear you."

Hands remember what mouths forget:

how grief feels, heavy as stone,

how joy skips like pebbles on water,

how love lingers in the shape of a hold

long after the arms let go.

When words fracture,

when voices falter,

it is hands that write

the final truth across the body:

that we are not alone,

that touch is the oldest language—

and the one we never forget.