This game of hands

Are your hands
Sturdy as a farmer’s
Precise as a surgeon’s
Flexible yet controlled—
Perfect for driving me home,
or to where I want to be.
Yet tonight, sweet lover,
Would you please drive me
Are your fingers
Deft as an artisan’s
Swift as a plumber’s
They’re sharp yet graceful—
Perfect for a Russian ballet
Or a late night massage.
My fingers like exploring, too:
Could I possibly make a map
Of you?
Are your palms
On which can perfectly fit
A book, a spade card,
An apple, my heart…
Your palms, your fingers,
Love, they are all mine.
We'd be playing this game of hands
until the end of time.
Oh my sweet sunrise,  
you're giving me reasons  
to write desperate love poems,
to fill my notebooks with paragraphs
two and a half pages long,
that don't shy away  
from my heart's fickle tune.
Everything about you
is making me swoon.
Written by heyycyanides
Author's Note
Written for:

Mond, my heart is yours.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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