The Hands

As I gaze upon this weathered skin,
I ponder when it all began,
tracing a scar with a calloused touch,
realizing how much I missed. How much.

I know this like the back of my hand,
an empty truth I understand,
for I can’t recall when my hands changed,
when the years rearranged.

I remember when my grip was firm,
when fingertips were warm,
throwing balls across an empty yard.
When did a simple grip become so hard?

I feel the ache through active wrists,
wondering when I turned to this.
Cold skin now adorns my fingers
and I missed it all as time lingers.

I run my hand across my knees,
bony now with speed decreased.
I swear I still feel the gentle ache
from when I ran for running’s sake.

When did I change, did I mutate?
Did I notice the signs too late?
My fingers feel with diminished grace.
The hands of time have left their trace.