I suppose,
your stories are etched on the lines of your hands,
the curve of your hips,
the scar on your arm.
If they took notice
of the verses singing off your skin,
they would grasp the presence
that undoubtedly sweetens your stubborn bends.

If I may be frank,
my reach is not as noble as you would hope.
I am sure the stories emanating from your sighs
are rather rewarding to decipher;
however, I would rather learn
the edges your bones carve upon your softness,
the quivers that saunter down your thighs.
Let my hands learn how your body reads instead.