They speak without sound: the small grammar of fingers,
nouns folded into palms, verbs scored along knuckles.
A thumb hesitates like a question; a wrist flick is punctuation.
Hands remember how to mend; they know the route to a bandage.

I watch the map of someone’s day traced in flour and ink and keys,
the quiet economy of a gesture that makes coffee, ties laces, signs letters.
Sometimes they tremble with private weather, sometimes they are steady as a hinge,
and every motion names an ordinary courage I did not expect to see.

I like the way they betray rehearsal, how habits fold into choreography,
and how, in a sudden tenderness, a fingertip pauses and rewrites everything.
There is a small language there I learn by staying still: mercy, impatience, repair.
When words stumble, hands carry the sentence home.