Hands
I love your hands,
how you use them to hold
a glass of wine, to wrap
a gift, to undo twine,
to write, to point, and
to my delight, to lace
your hand with mine.
I love the warm
of your hands, the soft
and perfumed
of your hands, and also
their adornments. I love
them tanned and bare
in the summer. I love them
emerging from the arms
of your sweaters. And
I love to watch you use
your hands to straighten
your clothes and apply
your mascara. I love to see
you mess up your hair
and wipe the extra color
from the corner of your lips.
I love the way you place
your hands firmly on
your hips, and when we
are out I love the way
you wave them about
to make a point
when you talk. And when
we are alone, and you
are being dramatic, I
love the way you splay
them out like fans to
strike a dancer's pose.
I love the smooth lines
of your fingers and the
curved shine of your nails.
I love every crease and
bend of them. I love
the pads and the hollow
of the palm. I love the
tapping of your fingertips,
and how you trace them
along the surfaces, the
contours of our home.
I love how you use your
hands to touch me and
to capture my attention.
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