When I think about him I picture his hands
Strong and expressive
As his eyes and words present me their lies
His hands crease with the weight of their guilelessness.
They reach out to me in loving embrace
In the middle of the night
Fingers gently press upon my skin
Without guidance they find my heart
As it beats steadily on for him.
His hands are honest
They are blunt
They refuse to hold nothing
But the truth in high regard
And in their absence
There lingers such a hollow feeling.
What is left here with me
If not the firm resolve of his calloused palms
Lying flat against the crook of my neck
So very softly
So very comfortably
That with each breath I lean in even further?
He sits with me
I see him
I feel him
But his hands never once abandon
Their post by his side
And so I know that I'm very much
Alone.
