there has
never been
this much doubt
running through my mind,
i’m so used to
your hands against mine,
yet i’m so scared
to let you touch me
in ways i’ve never experienced,
but i’m also terrified
by the mere thought
of letting you go.

An artist's hands are never clean.
A smudge of black, a splash of green...
Worn and scarred, they present
to life and hard work, a testament.
Calloused & bent, yet skilled in their craft,
from holding a pen or a brush by the shaft.
Stained with paint or ink or charcoal,
an Artist's hands are the tools of his soul.

Physical intimacy has its limits,
you know.
I can only learn so much from
pushing into each others mouths,
from grasping hands,
sharp breaths.
I don't care about the intimacy.

I care about
holding you
seeing what it would be like
to hold your hand.
I want you to want me too,
in every way possible.
I want to be the reason you smile
until your cheeks hurt.
I want to spend as many moments
as possible with you.

I don't care about ***.
I just want your mouth on mine
for every goodnight,
good morning,
goodbye,
hello
kiss.
I want you in the most
innocent, purest way.

i hate the feeling of sleet assaulting my skin because its sting feels so much like a strike from your hands.

I always wished
that my hands could be as gentle
as the ones I watched around me.

Elegant and musical,
the hands of those I spent time with
seemed to glide over whatever
they touched.
They were never aggressive
never snatching.

They wanted nothing,
only plucked flowers gracefully
and lifted glasses of lemonade.

They never had to hold fast
to anything
never worried about
the precious things
being taken from them.

My hands have always been
rough and calloused
prepared to lash out
to preserve me and my life.
They are fighting hands,
grabbing hands,
loving hands.

They are made to last
to persevere.

My hands have been exactly what
I needed them to be
my wistful wishes of gentleness
were just that:
wishes of someone who wanted
something different for herself.

But my hands have aided me
like none other,
and I would not exchange them
or change them for anything.

Iced hands
Drip, dripping with icicles
Light a fire
Dip, dipping them in gasoline
Stick a hand in, one at a time,
Into the fireplace
Smile
Scorched hands, are happy hands
Crackling in time with the flickering flames
The shadows cast, dance the tango around the room
Skin melting off the bone
Drip, dripping down my arms

side by side
books on the slide
a great time to hide
an afternoon not that mild
but thoughts run wild
hands ready to touch
lips too wet to vouch
how our connection reacts
how great the impact
the affection
the attraction
my skin
your hands
why can't you say
tell me now
tell me how
tell me
yell
WE

xoxo