Your hands are at your

Your hands are at your sides. They lay there limp and lifeless. A bruise rests quietly on your wrist; a purple canvas spilling across your bone. Glowing softly in the dim afternoon light is your skin - a sight for sore eyes. I watch as you lift your hand; eagerly, shyly. Your fingers search for a surface to rest on - an equal to intertwine. My fingers itch to caress the bruise. Suddenly, a touch. A graze on my lonely finger. My hand senses heat. Another hand on mine. Yours. Your hand rests; eagerly, shyly. Your fingers comfortably dance around mine. Let’s dance forever.