"Seven Ways to look at his hands."

“ Seven ways to look at his hands.”

His outstretched palm hides a surprise
one
defined line distinctively his own,
runs the width of his hand.
He has re-defined who I am,
he is my own,
my one.

His rough hands
brush my bangs out of my eyes.
Their callouses are from years as an athlete
as are mine. Working hands,
work better,
together.

His agile fingers strum
and finger a sweet song.
steady hands sliding up and down the neck,
picking out a familiar tune.
He is the lyrics, and I am the melody,
together harmony.

Few are left handed
He is one of those few.
Skateboarding left him a scar on his left hand, forever,
as he left me with one on mine,
in nearly the same place.
My scar will last a lifetime,
but his impression
on me,
just might last longer.

Their warmth
fills my whole body.
He slides his fingers
into mine, as we walk: hand in hand,
heart beating with heart.








I twirl his class ring;
glinting gold, it’s brand new.
I hold the hands
I so adore.
They are my hands,
for
one
more year.

He squeezes my hand,
As a final goodbye,
and lets my hand slide out of his;
the warmth going till our fingertips release.
Then he’s gone in a sea of people.
All I’m left with
is the
warmth
of his hand,
and
his heart.