these hands – adorned with silver, gold and opal – twitch with a need for touch
they tingle for intimacy
my fingertips hold yours; will you be around for long enough for me to learn their print?
the lick of varnish applied before rousing Friday nights wears off by Monday morning; telling of my transgressions
the creases on my palms seem to multiply with lovers had and lovers lost
but I can see the tales of help; they run along my fingerprints…and the untold story stemming from hope…
they still reach out