Hands I will never hold (Marcella Boccia)

There are hands I will never hold,fingers that will never trace my namein the quiet places where the soul slips,where words fall like autumn leaves,too soft to catch, too sharp to let go.I see them,those hands,reaching from the edges of dreams,from the places where love is not a choicebut an endless echo,familiar and strange,like the moon’s pale light on a winter morning.These hands have touched the fireof things I’ll never know,have held the weight of secretstoo heavy to bear,too cold to warm.They reach for me in the dark,but I am always just out of reach—a distance only time can carve.I will never know the feel of them,the softness of palms that could have beenmine,the warmth that would have slipped between my fingers,like tea running through cracked cups,slow, steady,until there was nothing left but the taste of what was lost.But still, I wait,hands open,for the touch of the hands I will never hold,like ghosts pressing against my skin,whispers in the spaces between heartbeats.And I listen,as if they are still here,calling me home.