Her hands
they move me
to places where I've never been,
she's the one that led me to her house
then she let me in.

She sat me down,
still holding my hand,
there we were in on the carpet,
asking me to help her with the lemonade stand.

We were so young
and she still held my hand,
we were friends, but a little more,
we didn't know, but didn't need to understand.

Her gentle hands traced over mine,
massaging them ever so carefully,
the first time I had that job,
and my hands had bled,
she took care of me.

With her hands.

The first, second, and few other times,
I got into a fight,
because I stood up,
for something right.
She cried, and buried her face with her hands,
and the tears slipped through the cracks,
pouring out like rain, but slipping faster than sand.

Her hands had always done good by me,
so much more
much more than I could see.

The way she stroked
the stubble of my chin,
the way she graces me with her hands,
before letting sleep fall on me and win.

She is much more than her hands even describe,
I'll ignore you're comment, and accept the banter.
I'll accept the lashings and ignore the ranter,
if only for her sake
for the hands she holds out,
the offer that only
only a fool would not take.

Her hands are mine,
and my only saving grace.