Eight Billion Thoughts For You

His Hands

His hands fascinated me. 

Worse. 

They turned me on. 

His face that I had so loved to peel apart didn't even interest me anymore. 

I was absorbed by his long fingers that danced every time he spoke. 

I imagined them on a piano, on me, in me, but especially in my hands, all mine. 

I could have spent hours looking at them without ever being able to make them my own. 

Either way, that didn't interest me. 

Having them would have bored me. 

It's crazy, isn't it, the power of a body, of its beauty that imprisons us without knowing why.