Arms speak.
They speak the language of blue veins mingling and snaking up the length of smooth, toned muscle; scattered freckles like falling snowflakes, to be studied and memorized, scars to be woefully shared.
Arms speak in their actions:
a mother coddling her newborn child, supporting its unstable neck with all of her protective power
a caregiver cautiously lifting a spoon to the frail lips of the ill, whose own arms shake too violently to be in control
they are the the canvas of frightened illustrations, the battlecry of the mute soldier during the war only he can feel inside his head,
tearing him apart between his temples
My own arms, always cold and badgered with goosebumps.
Pale, scarred, out of place.
Sometimes, if I focus,  I can feel the soft thump of a pulse in my veins telling me to
“pay attention, listen to yourself live!”
A rhythmic beat turning to a pulsating drum roll,
Another arm matches with mine, ten fingers so delicately interlaced.
Cracked knuckles together, rough ridges of anxiously bitten nails digging into beaten and worn skin
Tracing a vein, endless and strong.
An electrifying touch makes the hairs stand on edge, desiring more of what’s left them.
Hand in hand, chest on chest, surrounded and secure inside walls that cannot be broken down.
Walls of warmth, blood, and flesh creating a castle,
protecting me from all I fear.