These aren’t my arms anymore. And I don’t like them. I liked a lot better the old ones. These new ones are clumsy and annoying. These new ones don’t know how to move. Basically ‘cause they don’t have anything to move forward to. The old ones were mine and I knew them inch by inch. The old ones knew exactly how to move. Now, the one I’m waring now, they just lay their ugly hands on my lap, those two awful hands cross their fingers and their two disgusting thumbs start circling around each other while I stare at the ceiling looking back at the empty space you’ve left behind. And that’s all those thumbs, hands and arms know who to do. My old ones could hug you. And you fitted perfectly in them. My old hands use to caress you skin. And my fingers could run through your hair without getting tangled in it. I liked my old arms because they moved perfectly when you were around and it didn’t really matter if they were clumsy when you were away. But these new arms aren’t mine. But then again, you’re not mine either.
Soundtrack: Ode to divorce (Regina Spektor).