My hands are small but hold so many memories.
Each line a story.
New.
Or.
Old.
A canvas for the future.
Painting the lines with possibility.
Sketching the fingers with hope.
Drawing the sadness that lies within my palm.
Sculpting the way my thumb bends backwards, toward something new.
Which may be Scary.
Or full of love.
There is no way of knowing what will come.
Just take the future with grace.
The good things.
And the bad.
Each line a story.
New.
Or.
Old.
A canvas for the future.
Painting the lines with possibility.
Sketching the fingers with hope.
Drawing the sadness that lies within my palm.
Sculpting the way my thumb bends backwards, toward something new.
Which may be Scary.
Or full of love.
There is no way of knowing what will come.
Just take the future with grace.
The good things.
And the bad.
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