Hands are the body's warm greeting
they direct and show and tell
I watch his
as they turn the pages very well

I'm laying down
head on his lap
no sight of his head, nor his torso
I'm turned away and there's a ****** gap

Projecting unfocused black and white images
on the wall of my bedroom
a caress, murmuring, a conversation
and he'll be gone soon

His hands motion his emotions
the page-turning incessant
light from the projection and cheap scented candles
highlighting flesh, bone, and incandescence

I am a director of this seeming aesthetic film
the script is unfinished
without delving too deeply into this memorable moment
the self is being diminished