I wanted to tell you that you have nice hands
but before the words could casually come out of my mouth,
they were stifled in my throat and my mind was consumed
with the thought of how they would feel upon my skin;  
lightly running them through my hair,
or firmly grabbing my hips and pulling me closer to you,
or gently and delicately caressing my scarred and
imperfect body with your soft touch.
I wish I could sculpt your hands,
every line on your palm, every vein in your wrist,
a smooth marble replication of my favorite part of you.
But art would still be incomparable to the real thing.
A sculpture could never capture the reality of the feeling I get
when tracing every indention and wrinkle and crease
with my nervous and trembling fingers.
I'd much rather the genuine and delicate warmth.
*They say palms tell stories, I hope one day yours will tell ours.
And I hope that the lines on your hands read that you belong with me.