I open my hands like a book and loose sheets of paper fall onto my lap, blank and old, curling at the edges.
I open my hands like a chest of drawers and moth balls roll over my fingertips and across the carpet. Crisp, dead stick bugs lie in the bed of my hand and I close my palms again in respect.
I open my hands like the door of my house and a hard wind blows through my collars and hair.
I open my hands like the front of your shirt and where does this whole world go but through my clenching fingers.
I open my hands like I open the blinds and let the good things in, press the bad things against the glass.
