Sean's Hands

His voice is as low as a cello when he says,
I did a little writing in high school.

His fingers clasp,
and curl around
a page of my computer
he reads.

I watch his hands;
imagine them

feeling, in my mind as those fingers
burrow, and mark there way inside.

I smile.
Say nothing.
The sunset is a dying flame in my rearview mirror.
I can't stop thinking about his hands.