Hands

Hands, strong gentle perfect and fine.
When they touch me it's more than skin touching skin.
The world slips away, the pain, the doubt, the regrets disappear.
Callous becomes soft, wrong becomes right.
I hope they feel what they do to me, how I desire their touch.
Cupped in them are hopes and dreams of what can be
The lines are the marks of what was, of things remembered and forgotten.
They left their impression on me years ago.
Like a fingerprint on clean glass, my heart and soul bear the signs
Soft and loving as these wonderful hands are.
They could crush me by denying me their caress.

For Cindy.