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
Published | Edited 5th Sep 2019
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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Hallucinostic Nari
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