His Hands

They held my heart

Image source: minanfotos on Pixabay

His hands were always
as warm as his heart.
His embrace was comforting
as an ending or a start
of a new day or a night
of love and joy and passion.
Our intimacy began with sex,
became more solid with time,
grew with compassion,
so perfect, sublime.

Always, it is his hands
that I feel on my skin,
playing me perfectly
like a violin;
sifting through my hair
with the gentlest caress;
barely a touch would cause
me to precess.
I’d yearn for more
but he’d make me wait
until all my desires
joined to conflate.

His hands knew my body,
my heart and my mind.
His hands owned me
and held me enshrined.