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victoria-lynn2sPoems
I want to teach you The language of my hands For they can at times Be so very much more eloquent than I More subtle than my sometimes clumsy tongue Less prone to stumbling or misstep. Every touch can be a poem There are volumes written Upon the lines of palms Comfort in the creases, reassurance Love, desire, solace, all find voice Buried in fingerprints. All that I cannot speak In the space where words fail Or have not the proper definition Let my hands tell you By caress or grasp Variations of pressure or attitude In perfect, silent eloquence. That way, even the simple Lacing of fingers twining In knots of flesh and bone and nerve Can be a conversation Between our pulse The unsayable become known Described perfectly As a slight squeeze.
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Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 8:07 PM UTC
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I want to teach you The language of my hands For they can at times Be so very much more eloquent than I More subtle than my sometimes clumsy tongue Less prone to stumbling or misstep. Every touch can be a poem There are volumes written Upon the lines of palms Comfort in the creases, reassurance Love, desire, solace, all find voice Buried in fingerprints. All that I cannot speak In the space where words fail Or have not the proper definition Let my hands tell you By caress or grasp Variations of pressure or attitude In perfect, silent eloquence. That way, even the simple Lacing of fingers twining In knots of flesh and bone and nerve Can be a conversation Between our pulse The unsayable become known Described perfectly As a slight squeeze.
victoria-lynn2s
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victoria-lynn2s
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 8:07 PM UTC
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