hands are truer than the heart

they can not conceal the certainty,

that is told by a firm grasp

nor disguise their doubts,

baring all with bitten nails

they do not lie 

about their center's warmth,

wiping sweat from anxious palms

or utter words of falsehood 

for what they write, time will withstand

so recognize in cold me

that when i say 'hold my hand',

i mean 'you have my heart'

then, 

i will incorporate the fingers of your thoughts

through the parts of me that matter

well traveled

quietly,
she packed
her telescope,
so that she could 
search the night sky for the 
"constellation of consolations"

handing the conductor
her tickets of apathy,
she reached down
calmly
for the callous burlap bag
of soulful burdens -
the one
containing her 
barely beating heart

she boarded 
the train of determination
striving to arrive
at that 
old familiar destination
of
solitary contentment