I always loved your hands.
Not in any kind of lustful way, just the look of them.
I still love your hands, henna-ed and smooth
And so soft- startlingly soft-
If my fingers accidentally brush yours.
I used to marvel when you'd lace your fingers through mine-so casual- as we walked,
At how they felt like moonlight looked.
I love to watch you work, the careful way you do everything
Like it's all art, like it's all important.
Hell, you make a sandwich like you're carving a sculpture
And I find myself watching you, fascinated like always,
And I want to laugh, and I want to tell you you're beautiful.
And my smile turns wry
And I say nothing
Because who thinks of things like that?

I have a favorite photograph from long ago
Of your hands as you were drawing.
They've not changed.
That's why I always ask "Is that ring new?"
Because I catch myself noticing them
The way you might catch yourself absently holding a smooth stone you left in your pocket and forgot was there.
I used to secretly wish that someday you'd draw on me in henna
And I'd have the daring to ask you
To leave a handprint on my shoulder
Like a promise.

I've told you you look like a sculpture, too perfect not to be planned
And
I remember long hours in the museums as a child
Walking through a maze of white porcelain and marble women
Wondering how rock could look softer than my own skin.
I wanted to reach out and touch
See if they would be cold and hard like they should be
Or warm and velvety.
And their hands... So graceful and light-
The sculptors of old strove for perfection
Believing that they had not found it in humanity
Always imagining something smoother, something lovelier, something more delicate and more exquisite.
(You weren't around yet.)

Your hands always reminded me of something from that soaring hall
With all its silky looking statues and its ceiling of cross-paned windows.

So when I sit here, watching Art
Make ham sandwiches
It feels so incongruous.
Something here just doesn't belong.
And I can't tell if it is me or you
But honestly
How many people can say
They have watched Artemis sit down at the counter beside them
As if she has no idea she's divine?

Be careful when your fingers graze my
Skin .

Im made entirely of shattered pieces.

I yearn for someone who could fill in the spaces between those cracks and make me whole .

I pulled that dusty shoebox
From underneath the bed ,
Letters we had written
On the day that we had wed.

We talked about forever
And promised to be true,
Youd be good to me
And id be good to you.

I read and re read those letters
Trembling , clamy hands
I was not this women,
And you are not this man.

Why does time make change ok,
Stop simple things we used to do.
The way youd show your love for me or
How id show my love for you.

You should always hold
My hand, and make me feel my best,
I  should always be your rock,
We both just want respect.

Mabye we just need reminding
Of how it all began, to pick our battles better, and offer steady hands.

I tucked those letters safely
Into a book beside the bed ,
In that dusty shoebox
theyre not getting read .

I love petrichor ;
The way that seconds after the first few
drops start falling ;
The scent of Ozone fills the air .

I love the smell of fall,
The beauty of trees showing us that you can still shed bits of you that have died... Yet still be beautiful.

I love the sound of my nieces laugh;
The way it steadily always brings me back
to earth durning chaos ,
Reminding me to be joyful.

I love the ocean.
How beautiful is it from the surface ;
Knowing no one will ever see all the beauty
That lurks beneath the depths.

I love seeing peoples faces describing
The person they love.
Their features change , they
Become alive .

I love coffee, and my dog, and my tiny feet, and whiskey, and sportscenter, and lime popsicles. I love sleeping in ,and watching Braveheart .  I love love, and i love living .

What do you love.

~

I torture myself in many ways.

he started out on a ***** road !
his need for money obscured the mode.
alarmist spoke ...that he had a gun ..
no!  not until then he had ever touched one..
he learnt to fly..without the wings
coming down..was the hardest of things.


when he heard  about the shootout ,
his heart sank ,but without  the faintest of hope ,
he sincerely wished he could cope
he saw  the emptiness in his soul,
and  his innocence burnt!
a little late but lesson learnt .


his boss , the one who pulled the strings
knew what happened to a kin of his
he gave a scornful laugh
for all he was odious ignoble and repulsive bluff

had anyone shown him the light
he would have followed right.
for all he was just a boy,
Gullible timid and coy
again in the  hearts of his heart
a healing fountain could start
he had died; even before he could bloom
it wasn't even time yet he slept on his tomb