These Hands seem to have matured too fast.
They do not enter: they appear as if by magic-
always caught up in a lightening strike
dashing away, only come back, softly embracing, as David’s own:
chiseled, fingers tipped, and, essentially, they were perfect.
Godly dear, they were all anger, perhaps distrust or worry,
but someone said that they were lazy, and I had to agree.
They sat slumped, on his collarbone, waiting to be straightened
when will you stop that nitpicking? i wonder, and it makes me as mad as his hands looked.
On occasion they broke things, and, essentially, they were unshakable.
Sometimes, when I lie in bed alone, I silently wish that they would come out and press gently against mine.
maybe eight good seconds.
It would stop my heart from throbbing,
It would stop the hoping, the watching, the waiting,
and maybe the strange , awe-struck wonder.
Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry