His Hands

In the middle of a store, riding in the car, anywhere really, I feel safe and secure with your hand in mine.  A hand on my shoulder, or on my hip, just letting me know you're there. The warmth of knowing no harm will come to me while I'm with you... Well, there are no words.

     Your hands have the power of electricity. When I'm laying in bed with you, and your hands travel up my body, they leave electric shocks wherever they go.  They bring me to orgasm; take me up into space with the galaxies. They bring me down to earth, in bed with my lover, grounded into reality once more.
      I love to watch your hands in motion. Driving, cleaning, holding me, being silly, dancing, talking. Every movement is unconsciously calculated. Every motion, necessary. When your hands are still, the space for them stays empty. I watch your hands, not those of an artist's, but the artist's creation; i watch you unknowingly use these which mean the world to me and so little to you.
    Lastly, they make me fall. I find myself falling harder and farther more often than you think. As always, they are there to catch me. The back of your hand used to brush across my thigh, the finger you use to record little moments. Everything is noticed, and loved. Every gesture taken in by my eyes, thirsting for the next.