My Hands

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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