The Handy Man

I wonder if he knows

That I love how handy

He is.

I, sitting back,

Watching

His hands,

His precision.

Measuring,

Leveling,

Aiming for perfection.

I wonder if he understands

That although he is

Good with his hands

And is capable of fixing

Many things,

He cannot mend the

Chipped,

Cracked,

Broken pieces of my Self.

I wonder if he knows,

I hope he knows,

I love

The fact that

He tries.

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3 thoughts on “The Handy Man

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