flatsound:

i always liked how your hands looked
and not just in comparison to mine
they were an artists hands
calloused from building walls and
skin covered in clay that cracked as it dried
you see, i have two thoughts
before touching someones hands
are they soft? i hope not
not too soft
because four years ago i fell into a hole
so as soon as they touch
i wonder if they’re strong enough
to help pull me to the top
and are they cold? god i hope so
because mine are so cold
that anytime someone touches them
they ask me if something’s wrong
i know that most people have walls but
i just don’t think mine are the same
you are hiding away
i am trying to escape
i am inside of a cave
trying to retain the memory
of the last time that i saw the light of the day
and i told you that where i am felt permanent
and you told me to give it time because nothing is
but the minute our hands touched i felt something click
because they were strong
with the force to dig your nails into the earth
and make the world suddenly stop
and they were cold
like the metal gears and glass casing
constructing a clock
and i know that i’m not moving fast enough
i know that so much time has already passed us up
and i know that it must be frustrating to stand in front
of someone who keeps promising you that they’ll get better
without the evidence to back it up
but you have to trust me
the past is ugly
but i’ll make it to the other side as long as i know
that when i get there i’ll have somebody
please, i know that i can do this
i just need another half a month
i can pull through this
i just need our hands to touch

you said that you would always look for me in the crowd
with the same eagerness that a child sifts through the lost and found
searching for anything that felt missing
never considering what would happen the moment you stopped
as if the moment you’re not looking for an object
is the moment it stops being lost
i get it, you were cold
but i wanted to be more than just a coat
clinging onto a body that i was never constructed to hold
or a mirror to look into when your reflection
stopped looking like a person that you know
i know that you know the feeling of new clothes
but do you know what it’s like
to sit at the bottom of a box every night
replaying the fantasy of cold hands reaching inside
to take you home

you said you felt lost when you were found out
the death of our hands on your couch
was the birth of discovery
that someone elses hands
could feel cold
and in that sudden rush
i thought of all the hands
that could help me build a home
and none of them looked like yours