Wrists are meant for reaching. Some wrists try to cut themselves off body, while others twist their way inside bands of time. Wrists fall deeply in love with palms, create weld of imprisonment. Wrists permit fingers to roam, and when they coil around some thing, wrists want a full report of texture. Wrists are depressive and dramatic. Some wrists fit inside other humans, while others are too shy to make a commitment. Wrists are romantic when they gather up stains and some wrists are trouble-makers. And some wrists so desperately want to travel, they detach. Wrists are hungry in the way they swallow ink and scars. Some wrists are photogenic, while others prefer to hide beneath sleeves. Wrists prefer you address them as joint connectors or cuffs or carpus. Some wrists are bisexual, while others prefer not to choose a side. Wrists are without appetite or judgment of body type. Some wrists are called dainty while others hold onto corpulence. Wrists can be wallflowers and comics; some wrists are nudists. There are wrists who are masochists, maneuvering themselves into places where they are forced into stillness. These are the wrists to stay in contact with. These are the wrists with stories.