Hands. Your hands were my favourite thing. The way they made patterns on my back, you said you were telling a story and somehow I never got to know what that story was.
I had a sharp object by my hand, I was ready to torture myself but you snatched out of my hand. You picked me up and kissed my forehead, you ran the tap and sat me on the toilet. I was wearing white.
'I'm here.' You whispered. He undressed me and smiled. You said you were the luckiest man alive. You then washed me since I couldn't move or speak. I only smiled when you did. I lit my cigarette, puffing the smoke creating stories like what you did on my back with your beautiful hands.
