What Hands Know

Hands remember before the mind can name it— the grain of wood, the warmth of clay, the sharp edge where trust breaks. They speak in a language older than words, fingers reading the invisible text written on skin, on fabric, on air. The palm holds its own constellation: lifelines, heartlines, the geography of what will be taken and what remains. And when we clasp, we become translators of a grammar no tongue can master— the soft pressure that means I am here, the trembling that says I am afraid. Hands leave their mark on everything they touch, and everything they touch marks them in return.