The Things Her Hands Know

Her hands know everything love should know.

They find my back

exactly when my lungs forget how to breathe.

They pour my coffee before I even ask.

She always remembers how I like it

no sugar, just the warmth.

She holds me like

she read the manual on my nervous system.

Like she’s memorized

the places where I flinch

and promised never to press.

Her timing is impeccable.

She shows up

before I even realize I need her.

She kisses me

right on the forehead

like she’s closing the book

on every bad chapter I’ve lived through.

But her words

God,

her words never get the memo.

Her mouth speaks

like it skipped every meeting

her hands attended.

Says I’m too much,

too sensitive,

too dramatic

for expecting kindness in the same language I give it.

She says she didn’t mean it.

That I heard it wrong.

That I twist her words

like I twist my hair

when I’m anxious.

She says

she never said that.

That I take everything personally.

And maybe I do

because how do you not take it personally

when the person who holds you like you’re holy

speaks to you

like you’re in the way?

How do you feel safe

in the arms of someone

whose voice

builds a fire every time it enters the room?

Her hands are soft

like promises.

Her words are sharp

like disclaimers.

I live in the space between the two.

Between the way she wraps me in her jacket when it’s cold,

and the way she says,

“You always make things harder than they need to be.”

I try not to cry

when she says that.

Her hands reach for me anyway.

And that’s the part that breaks me

not the words,

but how she can still be tender

with her arms

while her tongue writes me out of the story.