poetry

My Lover’s Hands

My lover’s hands
So fragile, so cold
Manicured and neatly filed
An unusual artist,
Every time he waves them in the air
Like he’s throwing colors on my chest bare

My lover’s hands
They move on my face
Linger there for seasons
In no hurry no haste
Of my skin, they savor the taste
Letting no sensation go to waste

My lover’s hands
They take their own sweet time
When they find the space between
My fingers
As if an imperfect key
That fastens a lock forever

My lover’s hands
As cold as a rainy day
Dousing my fiery soul
Magic, they move underneath my blouse
As if it’s his own house
They make their way to tug my curls

My lover’s hands
They move on the foggy window panes
Tracing infinity with our names
Paving roads through broken lips
Pushing them in
And drawing wet lines down the neck

My lover’s hands
They slide down the curved paths
and the highways
To immerse and blend with me
We become one
Hurting, consoling, scurrying, pausing

My lover’s hands
They know my country well,
The north, the south
Mountains and the seas alike
They love the firm base
The airy apex
Every crevice, every peak

My lover’s hands
Leave me urging and yearning
To feel them
One more time on my chest
Asking my leaping heart to fly out of his cage

The power and beauty of the touch in
My lover’s hands

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