Juvenilia ✔/ a Nonfiction Undergraduate University Collection

the beauty of hands

There is nothing in life more sinful, more beautiful
than your hands. The language spoken is imperfectly translated
by voice and speech—cannot be replicated with
the same ingenuity though hands try to reveal notions
of the heart with instruments and ink. Stark white skin
against stone blue veins, sleeves fall concealing
wrists, and below that I press a lingering kiss.

Your slender spindly fingers,
adorned with signet rings, are pressed against
your cheek while in quiet rumination; your thoughts
perched between calloused fingers and blushing knuckles
in the moody autumn air. They fall to your side,
prominent tendons ensnaring the light,
casting severe shadows, my favourite sight.

My life is tied to this, your life-line stretching
like  a c r e a g e  too short
on your palm for my liking. Hands animated and expressive
when clenched in fury or extended with delight, I weave them
with mine seeking warmth, like fingertips curling
'round a mug, so poor a substitution
for that enigmatic love.

Press keys in gentle arpeggio,
fingers dancing to the melody of my soul.
Momentum builds exciting and passionate,
urgent then frantic. The tingle sends
shivers up my spine, your hand so close
to mine, hovering and intense,
twitching limbs in eager suspense.

My torso and yours follow the tempo,
now allegro—twist and turn
the trace of a tremble, your hand falling lower
as we glide to the time. Lips grazing gently
rousing a feeling so sublime. Twirling,
grip swirling, arms raised as we spin
to the violin, I let go, eager for the chase.

Pursuit takes us to a new place; under sconces and down
meandering hallways, silhouettes leaving cartoons
on the walls as we weave through the fray.
You're only half a breath away—
under the archway, statues of marble are jealous of our eager pace,
meanwhile we sprint out into the downpour
with only love on the brain and yearnings of the arcane.

On a bed of moss,
our paths have crossed, and
side by side in a meadow we lay alone
below a weeping willow. Your fingers
are soft on my jaw, pulling me closer loving every flaw,
you seal the air and after, wildly you say,
hair mussed and face a blush, 'God you're fun to kiss.'

Your love so easily translated from heart to fingers,
a moment of bliss, reading the rapid flutter below my breast.
Warm hands are the best, slow and steady,
your hold never straying, not even when we're old
and greying, we'll still have things to say,
for hands have a language of their own,
and it is one, to us, well known.