Weird. And what are you?Folding everything important except liquid, drenched with inopportune sweat, ten digits like a phone number, seizing like talons though we don’t necessarily find our own food or anything really to hold onto.
My grandma used mine to clasp her bra behind her shingled back, asked if I could tie her shoes when her knuckles turned to knobs. These pointed things on our twisty wrists are performances of young and love and young love.
You can make a swan on a wall, but what was that church, steeple, here’s all the people song about anyways? I only noticed my confused thumbs, never ever cut my nails. I guess daily function wore down the points. Have you ever thought of all the things you do with your hands?
Have you ever thought of all the things you don’t?