The veins on your arms
Remind me of crumpled paper
Which I hold on tight to,
Then loosen my grip,
Smoothing out the imperfect surface.
My eyes follow each string up your arm—
Untying the ribbon like opening a gift—
And back down again, to your fingertips.
My very own quiver
Like the tip of a quill pen.
I notice there are blanks to fill in,
And proceed to write my name
With my finger, onto your palm.
I write something longer,
And it doesn't tickle or bother you.
Then our little fingers wrestle:
it's a strong pinky promise.
We seal it with a swear of the hand,
And a handshake. We hold it in place,
Until our fingers are intertwined.
One more seal, with a kiss this time,
As I bring your hand up to my lips.
I won't let you go now.
This is how I write poetry
With my bare hands.
What can't my hands do, except to love you? I love you in this way: in images, in voice messages, in songs, in poetry, in waking and in sleeping. I love to want you and want to love you. If you give me your hand, does it mean you'll do the same?
to dearest aeh. feel better soon.