Fingers frozen to keys .
I fall in love with hands .
I care not for faces , breasts, genitalia
All I need are your hands.
The hands that play Chopin in a poorly lit room.
Strong built hands that save lives.
saving me from the heart murmur I get when I see those hands.
Yours are not sinful like mine,
But I still blush to think of what you do with them.
Whilst you stroke….
Your pen across a paper.
You are horrible at writing.
But my heart is stuck under your fingernails nonetheless.
The eerie scratches of your pen are my lullaby.
They have connotations of cigarette smoke and muted chatter.
Your hands don’t hold cancer though.
You’ll live forever.
If you don’t
Your skeletal hand will be locked away in my closet.
Because I have no need for the rest.
Your friendly squeezes are what pulled me in.
A comforting look,
But eye contact is impossible for me.
So you reached for my hand.
Our fingers entangled .
Is this what it feels like to make love?
I only see you here, our watery oasis.
My body was made of the liquid of the pool at our feet.
I’m drowning for you.
Dark painted nails.
Coffin nails. Pinning me in my grave. No escape.
Your hands are accented with your dark hair,
Overcast clouds that constantly lie on your head.
Hands highlighted by happy muscular tones.
I can’t help imagining those hands of yours
Caring for these shaking hands.
Could you handle me?
Could you love these hands too?
Or do I need to wash my hands of you?