My hands have a mind of their own, only their mind - a hand.
The train of thought won't be leaving until physicalities are reached.
My anxiety anxiously anticipated another aspiration of androgynous aclimations.
The last message received long ago, but his image flashes are peaked.
My hands return to obedience for my wholesome trepidations.
The cleaning of toxic fleeting is all but demeaning.
Although I know not the victim here, I will return for more.