i love being kissed,
but not just kissed, i love being kissed with intention.
i love to be kissed on my hands.
honestly, i sometimes prefer it more than being kissed on the lips.
while it could be the attention to detail
that i paid to romantic idolizations i held in my youth;
i see it as acceptance,
rather than infatuation,
because acceptance is more permanent.

when i kissed your hands,
while i perhaps mimicked beloved fairytales in my mind,
i did it to show you i accepted you,
all of you.

i kissed the backs of your hands,
to show that i wanted to know
of your romantic idolizations,
even if they came before me.

i kissed your knuckles,
so you knew that i accepted
the punches you threw to protect your heart;
while rhetorical, still real.

i kissed your palms
because i loved you,
and i loved the way you used your palms
to hold yourself when you hurt.
and i wanted you to see,
that when your palms couldn't,
i would hold your face in my hands
and wipe away the tears.

i wanted to know,
i wanted to accept,
i wanted to love,
i wanted to see,
all of you,
and all you were meant to be.

even when you kissed me less,
even when you didn't mean those three words as much as you used to,
even when you meant them for another,
even when i knew you didn't want me anymore.

i still wanted to kiss your hands
because all i wanted in life
was to know you, accept you, love you, and see you.

i now look down at the hands,
the ones who were kissed once,
so tenderly,
longing to be known, accepted, loved, seen.

so i now kiss the backs of my hands,
who began to wither,
as you brushed against them with your fingers,
less and less.

and i kiss my knuckles,
who once lost circulation,
while desperately grasping onto you,
as you turned to leave for, not the next, but final time.

and now i kiss my palms,
who hold my head up,
and have borne the rivers of tears that trickled down my arms,
and held me around my waist,
as i pleaded for the day
that my knowing, my acceptance, and my loving would come.

...

oh, but how my mind forgets, (or perhaps didn't know until now),
that these are the hands that wrapped around the shoulders
of those that i have loved, and those i have yet to love.
and these are the hands that stirred every pot,
turned every page,
wrote every word
of all that i have created
to nourish myself and others.
my god, these are the hands,
while scratched and bruised, who will reach to others, so they know they are known. accepted. loved, seen.

and so i will keep kissing the backs of my hands, my knuckles and palms,
so i will always be known. accepted. loved. and seen.