I love your hands—not because they’re different, but because they tell the story of who you are.

All of your past is filed, shyly, in the wrinkles of those hands.

It’s almost as though every wrinkle is a shelf holding a chapter, a beginning, and an end. Memories are piled up in the layers of your skin. Pain is hiding in the small scars, lying here and there on your fingers.

Love is safeguarded in the warmth of your palms. Dedication to life has smoothly drawn its shape on your fingertips, spreading some gentle, black marks. Your whole manhood is solidly entrapped at the heart of your touch.

Your wisdom, authenticity, and compassion are all shouting loudly to the world. Your hands speak.

Tell them to talk to me—tell them to read me their story.

Tell them to read it slowly…I’m not in a hurry. I want to enjoy every title, every breath exhaled when a page turns. Tell them to write this story on my body. Tell them to just be in the here and now—with me—and stay.

You might not like your hands, but I love them.

I don’t crave soft hands or pure hands. Softness and purity are not real. They belong to the realm of perfection, and you are not perfect. You are real in your imperfection, charming in your veracity, and intriguing in your simplicity.

Wrinkles, dust, and scars are the soldiers of life. A life with no wounds is like a wound with no pain—lonely and incomplete.

I crave a hand that fights the wind. I crave a hand that holds the sun. I crave a hand that shakes the dreams and beats the fears.

I crave a hand that touches me softly—and tells me boldly that the wind, the sun, the dreams, and the fears are all real. I crave a hand that reminds me that my own life is real.

I crave your hands—not because they’re different, but because they tell the story of who you are. And I crave you—not because of your hands, but because you’re human.

You are real. And your soul is simply so beautiful.

 

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Author: Lara Ghaoui

Image: Flickr/Mark O’Rourke

Editor: Yoli Ramazzina