I can look at his hands to my heart’s content.
It’s not staring, and he doesn’t even know.
I memorize the whorls and patterns and the tiny scars on his knuckles.
And the darling way he throws them up, in disbelief, joy or just some fun.
The way they move, with every word, punctuate, highlight and strengthen my love.
I imagine them, when I’m alone.
Brushing crumbs off my breasts, playing a rhythm on my back, helping a sweat bead run
down my neck, just brushing my lips in his careless way.
I see them entwined with my hands, in the most innocuous ways.
I do not mind the distance we have, as long as we touch the vital nerves.
I stake my pleasure on nothing but the words.
But I’m too greedy for plain verse,
So his hands, precious hands, I claim them for my own.