Hands

When you’re near, I cherish the love in your eyes,
But my hands are of no good, so useless—
They can’t show, I can’t show how I feel,
It would be dangerous, you know.

They’re always around—-those discreet observers,
So my hands remain where they are—
Lying on the table like useless
Pieces of flesh put there for no apparent reason.

What do I need these hands for
If they can’t hold you, if they can’t touch you?
Take them away and put me in a coma
‘Cause I’m so short, so short on breath without you.

In the evenings when you’re gone
My hands start trembling and feel cold, so cold.
I strive just to make it through the night,
But the worst comes always in the mornings.

When I’m awake, while not yet quite,
I start imagining things—
Well, I know they’re not true,
But still they hurt burning my heart out.

What do I need these hands for
If they can’t hold you, if they can’t touch you?
Take them away and put me in a coma
‘Cause I’m so short, so short on breath without you.

Well I’m good at creating fantasies,
And my imagination sometimes screams me happy,
But then I look at my hands and remember
That they’re still there hopelessly waiting for you.

What do I need these hands for
If they can’t hold you, if they can’t touch you?
Take them away and put me in a coma
‘Cause I’m so short, so short on breath without you.

December 4, 2018