(Versión en español abajo)
Your hands have always seemed strange to me. Exquisite.
Your different, long nails crowning your large fingers like lush ferns adorning tall trees. Hesitant. Delicate. Restrained. Measured.
I see them beyond my dreams, on the night I kissed you without fear or audacity before flying away through a blue sky filled with clear waters of your fragrance.
Even so, I do not know them.
Those hands I sometimes feel climbing up my back, creeping along my neck like a lost spider, brushing against my hand by accident, holding my waist without thinking, searching inside my mouth for my voice, that blossoms in a hurry like a cherry tree.
Sometimes I feel your hands touching my palate, tasting of vanilla, blue cheese, or cumin.
Your hands wander through my mind without knowing what they seek. They are like the blind who cannot see yet never stumble. Innocent. Wise. Controlled. Ashamed. Hopeful.
Hands that know they must not disobey yet keep smiling as they search; insistent and not fearing the scolding. Like a restless child staring at candy, they keep searching, unsuccessfully, for a way to meet mine.
Arnaly Arriaga Blanco
Tus Manos
Tus manos siempre me han parecido extrañas. Exquisitas.
Tus uñas diferentes, largas, coronan tus dedos grandes como frondosos helechos que decoran altos árboles. Dudosos. Delicados. Moderados. Contenidos.
Las veo más allá de mi sueño, en esa noche en la que te besé sin miedo ni desparpajo mientras dormía, para luego irme volando por un cielo azul, lleno de aguas claras de tu fragancia.
Pese a eso, no las conozco.
Esas manos que a veces siento subiendo por mi espalda, trepando por mi cuello como una araña perdida; rozando mi mano en un descuido, tomando mi cintura sin pensar, hurgándome la boca en busca de la voz, que florea como un cerezo presuroso.
Siento que a veces tus manos tocan mi paladar y saben a vainilla, a queso azul o a comino.
Tus manos recorren mi mente sin saber lo que buscan. Son como ciegos que no ven, pero tampoco tropiezan. Inocentes. Sabias. Controladas. Avergonzadas. Esperanzadas.
Manos que no pueden desobedecer, que sonríen buscando; insistentes sin miedo al regaño. Como un niño frente a un caramelo, persisten en buscar las mías sin poder encontrarlas.
Arnaly Arriaga Blanco
Welcome to my suitcase of memories and creativity. I’m Arnaly, a citizen of many places, and I want to share my experiences growing up in Venezuela, as well as my fun experiments in creative writing.
I became a writer the day I realized there was no more space for thoughts in my head, and I needed to set them free. I write both fiction and non-fiction: in “La Maleta de Arnaly,” I share my personal stories, and in the section “Life Wayfaring,” I write hybrid stories, allowing my imagination to roam free and blend with reality. I am a fan of Magic Realism and love to use it in my stories. In the section “The Un-Poet”, I express my feelings in the shape of, hopefully, poetry. In my newest section, “The Typewriter,” I am journaling my experience as an aspiring writer.
Thank you for reading, and I hope you’ll join me on my journey as I travel the world and share my stories with you.
My posts are all free, but if you would like to help me write and smile more, buy me a coffee on the link below. It is much appreciated:
