My hands ache and talk, one is telling me a story about the nerves we 

Left unattended accustomed to the pain.

It tells the story with a calm voice that I was not expecting from

The bursts it goes into without notice.

My hands ache not like I’d die from this pain

They ache how at the end of the day a carpenter hands are from holding tools too tight for too long.

They talk.

They gesture because they want to keep telling this story, their story, our story. 

Have they not have all the stories that we can possibly have?

The gestures are from my culture, we talk with hands

But they point at each other in an intimate wink.

My hands have switched turns to hold the world

One has made progress while the other rested.

One has share a world pressed to be inked.

My grandma grab my hands and says

They are so soft, is this what writing is?

Her hands ache too, her hands ache of work,

time, of what she holds close and what she carries.

My hands hold hers closely, gripping them, skin knows.