Palm Lines

There's something amazingly victorious about when your hand goes limp, stops fighting mine as it swirls towards your belly button. The conceding of my victory. I'm nearly always sure that you'll give in, stop fighting me after awhile and leave me free to roam, and the protesting hand will fall away. It is a jolting, beautiful relief to the tenseness normally reserved, the small balls we make of our hands.

Guiding hands is never the same. Well some hands. They don't understand patterns and motion and gentleness, and they ruin the intention in their unsteady tremors. They lose track and not even rough pulling can make them curl their fingers into the right shape. They are taken away from the overall picture.

Hands navigate shapes. Curves, corners, grooves and points - dips and crevices and tiny ledges. The barely perceptable raises from something smooth. The parallel lines inscribed across the thick raises of blood tunnels that were put there by angry hands, those that navigated mental discontent in physical perspective. Soothing hands try to run over them.

In the depths, coated and salty, hands experience, protect and nurture the textures of cleaning and sweeping and immersing and changing.