My hands
Are stained
By your deep colour
My hands
They burn
From the flames that glow in you
My hands
Are healed
By the foaming waves that twist and turn in your belly
My hands
Are damp
When they slip around on your palms
My hands
Are restless
So they tip toe upon your naked bossom
My hands
They itch
To draw something new upon your canvas
My hands
Are battered
Fresh against your war torn fists
My hands
Are curious
They ask questions to the answers they think they already know
Your hands
Are open
Patiently spilling out thought after thought
My hands
Were forgotten
Discarded like a book that has been read too much
My hands
Aren’t my hands any anymore
They ceased to bring out the beauty of the moon anymore
My hands
Have broken their silence
For in the space between us
They have found a new home
