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If hands could talk...

If hands could talk...

If hands could talk they would say that one day they held each other tightly.

That sometimes one of them grabbed the other one harder to pull it,

And the other resisted at times and agreed at others.

If hands could talk, they would tell how they moved when they told dreams.

How they frizzled with anecdotes of hope and passion.

How sometimes they had no way to accompany the word because not even themselves understood it.

If hands could speak, they would tell of the times when they felt full, alive, deeply loved.

They would narrate moments when waking up in their bowls there were little hands that looked like themselves, that had emerged from their loving surrender.

They would sing of the joy of having been filled with joy, of gifts, of moments, of beautiful things that they were able to grasp and also to let go of.

If hands could talk, they would tell stories of thousands of encounters under the pretext of a coffee in which they were united and sometimes separated without knowing why.

If hands could talk they would remember the times they took a pen or a computer keyboard and wrote what the heart dictated to them, without understanding much, just obeying the flow of feelings, thoughts and ideas...

Sometimes they were more reluctant to write, other times they implored and forced the heart to dictate.

If hands spoke they would tell when one day they found themselves and wanted to hold each other tightly and they would wonder if sometimes they did not squeeze or let go too much, if they hurt or if they caressed enough.

The hands spoke yesterday to say goodbye without knowing if the embrace and the final caress could communicate the gratitude of having met one day without knowing how or until when.

Rosy, el ruiseñor

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