Some people's hands don't reach.
Can wipe tears off face, but not reach deep inside.
Need to grow longer hands. Need to know that.
Remember that.

Some hands were held, down, and in. Grew to meet others the same. Cannot reach selves, or each other. Forgot to wonder what's wrong.
Need to be free. Free to wonder. Wonder how to grow.

Some mistake their hearts for their stomachs.

Some mistake their hearts for their ears.

Some for their heads.

Some for their eyes.

And some mistake their bodies for their hearts.

Some, if not all, are partly right.
But partly, is not enough to reach that part,
deep inside.

Some see other hearts, but remember so clearly nobody remembered them.
They keep their hands to themselves.
(Not knowing it, busy washing their sadness with bitterness).

Some see heart as machine. Hands used only to push food, fuel, in. Even a dog you pat on the head after feeding.

Some, try to keep their hands, and replace with words. Too scared, of own hands, of other's, of touch. But words not the same.