As the nights grow colder
My hands are my only comfort
I wish to God, that they were your hands
I know what your arms feel like
As we have embraced on more than one occasion
I know the way your body feels pressed against mine
I remember the sweet intoxication of your scent
The feel of your lips and stubble against my face
(I have far too often wondered what those lips and that stubble would feel like against more sensitive flesh)
But I don't know the feel of your hands.
I've yet had opportunity to hold your hands
Or feel them caress my face or the nape of my neck
I am to blame, I know, for it is due to my own hesitation
That I am now obsessed with your hands
I lay in bed with legs parted
My fingers trying, frantically, to ease the ache
You have so mercilessly hoisted upon me
(How dare you, by the way, suffer me to wantonness without offering me release)
I imagine what your hands must feel like.
Are your palms and fingers smooth and well-cared for?
Would they glide through slick folds unencumbered?
Or are your hands marred by years of hard work
With tantalizing rough knuckles and calloused, textured pads?
Is there strength in those hands?
Strength tempered by the knowledge of how to please?
Would those hands know hidden places to caress?
Could they tease secrets from me?
I bet your hands could teach me about pleasure
Show me things about myself I hadn't dared to look for
I would worship those hands
I would kiss every tip
Trace my tongue along the pads
Whisper across every tendon
And every vein
With my own fingertips
I would carefully
Touch every square inch of your hands
Until it was too much sensation
And your need began to mix with mine