Hands.

Long, wiry bones meet tiny, stubby ones
One shaking in anticipation, one not noticing
One covered in oil, grease, and dirt
And the other never separated from its pen.

Shy and nervous and oblivious and indifferent
A year of sitting back and waiting for the right time
Remaining distant, scared of contact
Of screwing it up before it begins.

Palms meet, fingers entwine
Thumbs wrestle in nervous excitement
The sweat of the nerves goes unnoticed
In the sweetness of the touch.

The shakes eventually dissipate
The nerves focus attention on new things
Distance is never significant
And if it was, Time took care of the rest.

Time grew, attitudes evolved
Proximity became a right, not a gift
Possession sought value over intimacy
And shakes began once more.

What once brought warmth becomes unwelcome
The comforting becomes invasive
The once oblivious stands startled and guarded
While the once nervous becomes far too confident.

A line is drawn, and distance is brought back
Fingers disentangle, palms separate
The piano hands go back to playing mechanic
And the writer returns to her pen.