I’m in the mood for more poetry today.
I’ve always loved his hands
The way the skin doesn’t divot
into pores.
The way the sand chocolate tone
doesn’t end, or begin.
They’re so smooth that
The veins underneath
Just add texture.
The thing is, though,
that those hands are cruel.
Not blood pumps through those gentle veings,
but silence.
If they say anything at all, it is
typed
texted
And it’s not a reflection of
those hands.
Those beautiful hands.
So flawless.
Maybe that’s why we worked,
Why I couldn’t stop myself from loving you
I never broke the surface of his skin
to read the empty words
that bled like rain
through the fabric of my perceptions.
I just marveled at the beauty
The love
In those hands.
