These hands, they are different

these hands, they are not the same

these hands, they do not touch me

like I wish they would, in the way I remember

these hands, they are paler, like death, lingers my passion

these hands, they are cold, seem so dead in mine

these hands, are clammy, so wet and damp

why aren't they rough, dry and warm

why don't they engulf mine

why don't they caress me the way I remember

why don't they hold me the way I remember

I remember those hands, so clear, so close

I loved them, and the man they belonged to

but no, they are not the ones I long for

these hands, they are different

these hands, they are not the same