some things are not meant to be held.

I have never had particularly strong hands.

there is always a dull ache, a slight stiffness to them.

a scar in the bend of my right middle finger from glass on a drunken night at 16.

small, white scars that hold no memory of where they came from.

calluses on the left tips earned from rough guitar strings.

a bad habit of picking at my cuticles keeps the outsides of my thumbs shredded and raw most of the time.

dark, poorly applied nail polish gets chipped away immediately.

a passive, masochistic satisfaction for constantly tearing into myself.

a telltale sign of an incapacity for patience or preservation.

my hands are delicate and weak.

they move gracefully and intentionally.

my grip is loose and failing.

my hands often forget they are holding anything at all.

these hands are prone to dropping things. 

he was water in my hands.

cool, still, and level.

taking the shape of it’s container, 

with no ability to stay there. 

even if it wanted to.

it is water.

it is not meant to be held.

you can drink it.

a temporary relief.

but it will never be enough, and you will be empty of it soon after.

you can press your fingers together tightly,

shape a boat for it.

but with time it will seep into you leaving your skin damp, pruned, and shedding.

some of it will evaporate.

it is its nature to change form and disappear.

I’ve heard stories of people who have drowned in just a few inches of water.

I tried to hold onto it for a while.

I thought - if I only held it long enough - it would become a solid.

but he was water.

and I have never had particularly strong hands.

now it’s a puddle on the floor,

and I am mopping up the last of it.

but my hands still get cold every once and a while.

when they remember how it felt to have water to hold.