His hands...

He was talking
and i was listening,
to his hands
they were revealing
more than him
I learned from his running away answers
to interrogate his hands
to built my own castle in the sands
of our childhood game
I found in them the one entrance
where he introduced me into his soul
where he would submit his all
to the undefeated desire of nakedness
exposing his laziness,
he only uses the right one
i attentively rested my eyes on his fingers
they are fat and rounded
well made fingernails,speaking to me
as if he doesn't want to hurt anyone
even lovingly he doesn't
his attentive way in waving shyly his hands
reassure me
seduce me
to some intimate touches
that would only revive my craving moans
still i don't know him
I just feel him well
like an estimated quill
he brushes his colors over my blankness
he knows my spots of strength and weakness
his hands are prominent
brilliantly transforming
my rivers of stillness
into floods of possibilities
that would drown him in a second
at a savage touch
his hands say too much
of what he wouldn't dare
even to know he can share
his hands are surfing my hair
drawing his lines everywhere
over my body sheet
and i am being his seat
of inspiration
one more time
i feel his hands around
tender
yet louder
their conversation with their Model muse.