Hands Are Underrated

My hands... they almost have a mind of their own.

So uncoordinated with my thoughts.

So... *in touch*... with my most secret of needs.

And apparently, I need yours.

Your hands. It's cold out but the air --

The air fears you.

You do have strong hands. Large hands. Warm hands.

Do you feel that? My fingers -- my frozen fingers interlacing with yours.

Please feel me. That's what hands are for. And all my hands want now.

To feel your hands. Every vein, every scar and crease, every callous, every heart beat-

I can feel your heart beat in your hands. You can feel mine in mine.

It's as though we're offering up our hearts to each other --

I'm putting my life in your hands. Your hands.

They're my vault. Safe and secure. Strong, powerful, soft, loving.

Warm. Soft. Worn. Beautiful.

Have you ever watched your hands? How they move, how they act with mine?

Have you noticed how well they fit, how well they hold me? I wish you would.

You're so soft. So gentle.

And your work. Your art. Your hands worship your craft. And I want to worship your hands.

Look at how they move. Even in the cold. Every movement is calculated, so precise, so refined, and so free.

And they hold your heart. Our hearts.

Hold my hands again.

I need your warmth. Your hearth. Your heart.