Weathered and calloused,
Your fingers weave my hair into a braid,
But only so that you would have an excuse,
To steal a moment touching my neck.

Rough and manly,
Your hands stir honey into our tea,
While I watch in only underwear,
Dancing to Santana.

Tense and shaking,
Your hands grab my shoulders,
Pulling me in for a kiss,
Every time as if it's our first.

Cold and clammy,
Your hands hold mine,
If only to keep me still for a moment,
So that you can get a good look.

Small and feeble,
My hands type these words,
As an inadequate thank-you,
For all that yours do.