if only he could hold them
and cup them between his own palms,
whispering to her in the dead of night
that he was with her,
and never leaving her side.
he would blow on them in the chill of winter,
rubbing them together and keeping her warm,
and safe.
they were so glorious;
her knuckles always had a dark ink coating them
and her fingertips were marked with paint splatters.
her digits were long and slender, and graced with a beauty only she could possess.
oftentimes his hand "accidentally" brushed against hers in the hallway,
showing him they were as delicate as they looked.
