For the Hands

For the Hands

I have a hankering

to somehow fit a scrapbook into my back pocket

So that I may be able to dive into its pages

once and a while

Probably not even that often

It'll just kind of be there

Because I have a fondness for that feeling

The feeling of something being...

There

Like a wavering yet warm hand

Extending itself into space and time

Somehow connecting with another's hand

and whispering,

"We have different length lines digging into us

but count my fingers and you'll understand

That there's five different one's to choose from to grab

and most of all...

that I'm there"

It'll just kind of be there

When I need it

Because it may be painfully obvious

But most of us are oblivious to the pain causing fact

That forever is not forever

Time brutally severs us from what we only vaguely remember

and we all need that one thing

That one thing

that will always be...

there

We all have an invisible scar that splits us down the middle

These scars have been there our whole lives

Since our conceptions

Since we were new

Since we were little

As our bodies deteriorate

The stitching wears until our wounds burst

and we are broken open

Images

Words

Things unseen

Things unheard

They all, at varying speeds, disperse

Running the risk of evaporating into thin air

fading and fleeing

and leaving us with the feeling

of virtually nothing being...

there

And this scar

This invisible scar splitting me down the middle

is why I have an uncontrollable hankering

to somehow fit a scrapbook into my back pocket

Not just so I can dive into it's pages

once and a while

probably not even that often

It's just that I want it there

No...

I need it there

because as I grow

and begin to burst at the seams

all the images

words

things unseen

things unheard...

Well, they'll need somewhere to go

Just somewhere

And I know it won't be all that I have

and all that is there

But when time becomes unkind

separating what belongs to the world and what is mine

with one bound to happen

yet unexpected stab

a lone scrapbook will be quietly waiting

for new hands to grab