Friday, March 17, 2017


Journal September 2015

What I think about most often is your hands.

Ours touch when meeting, hands floating across a thousand arcs to find flesh. Hands locked together as we walk down the street. Hand in hand as we trapeze through alleys and down roads in search of food, adventure, life.

Hands covering your lips as you laugh. A hand that grasps the slender stem of a wine glass. Hands cutting and arranging a meal for me that only you know how to make, completely aware of everything I need from it.

Your hands in my hair as I drift off to sleep, your hands smell like me. Your hands smell like lavender. Your hands are sweet chocolate and vanilla and honeyed trails traveling between us.

Hands pressed together, hard around soft flesh, your hands telling stories across my body, with my trembling, frightened to be touch by you, thrilled to be touch by you, reading through the writing your fingertips trace: stories erotic, comedy, thrilling, passionate, stories that leave me quivering, full of desire for me.

Words, communication, thoughts, shared desires, all flow from your hands to mine, from your hands to my mind’s eye, where they invoke pictures of your lovely hands, covered in jewels, laced in gloves, your fingers alive with meaning.

Your hands forced together, held down under mine, my hands rough, desirous and rending. Yours soft and gentle, always finding some way to wind back towards me, a connection that cannot be severed.

There is quiet pleasure in your hands, comfort, love, warmth, friendship and undying commitment. The taste of me on your hands and fingers inflames passion, adds subtle elements to our drink and play. Your hands under me, and over me, and around me, locking your arms around me so you can hold me.

Your hands are there when I am strong, and most amazing of all, when I am weak. Your hands don’t care about the single moments, they are committed to the longer story and constructing a narrative over time. The flesh cares not about distance, only waiting, seeking a moment where our finger can mingle together and we can share it all, through touch, without words. Our hands will tell all our grief, sorrow, loneliness and weakness.

Our hands together will make us whole again.

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