My hands don’t write like they used to. Nurturing hands that at one point caressed the world, they grew tired. Hands that reached out to grab other hands in need of care, they’ve withdrawn. I need my old hands. Hands that were not limited to their own comfort zone. Hands that would willingly touch things and people that were foreign to them just to feel that connection. They aren’t as warm as they used to be, not as loving. When they go to type words now there is hesitation, fear even. Fear that they will not be able to regain what was once them. That they will be at a loss for words and that there will be even more of a loss of passion. Are these even my hands? Where did the zeal for writing go? Are my hands strangers to me now? Like a couple that was completely in love and too young to be able to function together, it feels like loss. But then I realize when you love something you don’t lose it, you may let it go but there is that moment. That moment when you recognize a stranger in a room full of people, and your heart drops into your stomach because there they are. And every moment that you suffered in their absence you no longer feel in that instant. And you lock eyes and walk up to each other, like the forces of the room are pulling you together. And you realize they never were a stranger, as cold as it was when things weren’t working, you will always welcome them back.