Fingers

You were a god with the skin of a boy, yet you spoke of me as if I were the divine one. You thought I smelled of old books and coffee and when you looked into my eyes, you could see the whole universe clearly. There was a visible glint of humorous wisdom there, that spoke of years of never-regretted experience. On my mouth played a hint of a smile even when it rested and you wondered if the rest of my bones were as diamond-like as the teeth that showed. You would watch me without an ushered glaze and focus on my fluidity and swiftness not only when I danced on my toes, but when I stepped on the ground like it were really air, too. I was just as graceful as the wind I reflected. My hair was softer than fresh leaves and more natural than ripples of water; you ran your fingers through it whenever you felt. Sometimes our lips were as close as the sun and land, a horizon of pink flesh and other times, our fingers were like grapevines, extending, tangling. My voice could warm over the winter, because it was so soothing yet cunning, like I had the power over ice itself, but at the same time the ability to cure and right all that was wrong. My heartbeat, it pulsed steadily and alive like it were supposed to. Somehow, I was the same as everybody, yet I was so different, too great to be only human. I knew this all because you told me, your softer voice flowing through comfortable silence like our fingers. I told you humans were great things.