These were not hands that held children.
They clenched to fists and fought instead,
then folded Sundays to lift prayers up.
These were my lover's hands.

These were hands that pecked at keyboards
to type out what lips withheld.
These were hands that busted wallboards
when I put this man through hell.

These were hands that stroked the hair back
from my sleeping face at night.
These were hands I gripped, held onto,
hands I trusted with my life.

There are men who step in his shoes,
chasing ghosts in shadowlands
and while they might retrace his fingers,
they never once replaced his hands.