these hands

these hands
stretch in the morning
yawning
like every finger
is a mouth
taking in as much air
as possible

they pass through
boiling water
and concrete air
as they make their rounds

these hands
knock on as many doors
as they can,
in eight states so far,
before they try
to knock down the walls

between you
and inaction
and me.

they walk notebooks
like endless streets,
and sprint
towards embraces
faster than i ever could.

these hands
clench pens
like scalpels
wield word incisions
with precisions,

except when they
embrace pens.

really,
my hands would make out
with every pen they saw
if they could.

but then they'd never
get to play salacious symphonies
in the kitchen
or blend delicious dishes
on the saxophone.

my hands
wrap around yours
little pythons
squeezing silliness
into yours,
though they're not british,

my hands
have been known to cross dress,
convert,
break all kinds of barriers
i myself would never cross,

my hands
sometimes have minds
of their own,

leap into action
without receiving any
encouragement
from my head or chest,

my hands
lead me into action,
pull me up
by fingerstraps
i didn't know existed

and fit around you,
keys lifting all the right pins
till the lock gives way

and everything pours out.