Hands create, they cure, they care.
They touch, they feel, they heal.
A mother’s palm. A lover’s grasp.
Threading breath between bodies,
braiding songs through silence’s clasp.
But hands—
they steal, they kill, they scare.
They bruise, abuse; they dare.
They destroy not by striking, but by stopping.
By denying… dismantling… dropping.
Your hands refuse to reach for me.
Year after year, the touchless plea.
Who is touchable— is it you, is it me?
Who built the cage? Who picked the lock? Who turned the key?
Your view must be pristine, from up above.
Down here, on my knees, in the dirt you chose,
I cleaned your mess while you looked away,
frozen in all the distance you imposed.
Come closer— just a step, that’s all.
Your wit, your wisdom, your sudden grace,
your feasts, your words, your public face.
It lives everywhere, except here— that’s all.
Where is that place
where we finally meet
under one roof,
to smile, to sit, to eat?
Could you see eye to eye, could you face a mirror?
Is there a table left without your armour?
Can we turn the table with our own hands?
Can we see together what still stands?
Will you ever touch the silence you created?
Will you ever let yourself be free?
Will you hold what you broke?
Will your hand ever reach for me?
DoubleSpeak 