His Hands

                                
I miss everything about my last lover, especially his hands
I know, such a strange then to remember about someone.
Yet those hands, large, rough scared and typically unkempt
With a dark line, signifying his lifeline running
the length of his big brown palm,
.

The hands of a man that worked hard
That spoke of his dreams
His vision and passion for life
And his future, commanded me, demanded me.

Although they were hard and worn
They were the tools of a karma sutra master
the touch of a craftsman
used with precision and skill

A baby’s fine touch.
they felt like the finest silk
against my trembling hot skin.

Rough and hard they moved
so slowly over my expectant,
quaking flesh, affectively

Taking a leisurely slide down my core
to rest atop my garden. Long, black fingers  
Tracking the outline of wet panties
across my waist down
between my wide thighs

thick fingers,  slithered, seeking
searching its darken prey,  
sliding slowly inside hungrily

thick lips blowing soft across my
quivering exposed stomach
anxiously awaiting more of
his probing hand  

large hand exploring
the numerous folds of my rich core,
searching for heaven’s gate
his treasure found
kissing my inner thigh.

The other caressing my hard nipples
aching for more of his
 firm touch

Like a river damn, bursting
Open, flowing freely
My essences oozing until dry.

Watching him lick thick fingers
like a child with ice cream
running down
was my aphrodisiac

I remember coming often in those hands
We’re no longer together
Me and the owner of those hands
Things just didn’t work out
but God I miss his hands