Look at your hands. They are twin moons orbiting around you, objects gravitating towards them and flying away.
Note the geography of them, the mountain range of knuckles that rises from clenched fists, the valleys between the tall, branchless fingers, the creased riverbeds etched through your palms.
Look closer. Observe the whorls on your fingertips, the subtle beat of your blood as it courses through your wrists, the white edges of bone stretching the limits of your skin. There's a whole rainbow bleeding out from your hands; soft blue-green veins, reddened fingernails, violet scars.
Look again. See the cuticles you've ripped ragged with time, the slits of your fingernail tips, the collection of rashes and bruises and calluses you've collected without noticing.