From afar, his hands dance
to the symphony of his voice
and I look on, mesmerised.
Or stroke his soft lips when he is deep in thought.
I’ve watched them drive, and cook and give him food and drink.
I’ve watched them dress him and wash him.
I’ve watched those hands.
I’ve felt those hands.
The first touch, a tender stroke of my hair down my back.
The next, they were holding my hands and pulling me closer for the first, gentle kiss.
And then, brushing my hair back,
hands in my hair as he kissed deeper.
I’ve felt those hands:
Unbutton my blouse,
Caress my skin,
Knead and squeeze,
Tickle and stroke.
Those hands
… have loved me
as I love him who
owns them.
Starting from the Middle 