Your Hands

Your hands are my favorite things about you.
Some might think it strange
That such a feature would take precedence,
Which isn’t to say that
Your eyes don’t soothe and allay wounds,
Warming cold hearts like a crackling fireplace;
Nor is it to say that
Your smile doesn’t gleam like the opalescent moon,
Powerful, alluring, enchanting a soul to the very core;
And one cannot simply forget about
Your voice, gentle, yet certain;
An overture driving and lilting at the same time.
Nay, it is those appendages that can
Wave and grasp, craft and smooth over,
These extensions of yourself speak most of yourself
Because of what they are able to create.
Dexterous fingers delay destruction with
The stroke of a pen
The swipe of a brush
The caress of a cheek.
Helen possessed the face that launched a thousand ships,
And there is no doubt that yours rivals hers,
But without the hands to build such vessels,
Her beauty would have faded
Long before anyone reached her.
For while your fair face makes a life easier to endure,
It is only your hands that can carry me through.


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