your hands are your
within them lies your power.
they are everything to you,
your livelihood, might i be so bold.
and in their spare time,
they temper blades of
passion, pain, perfection.

(and god, do i want
your scars; your
i want you.)

& your fingertips, oh
your fingertips whisper
soft, soft, soft confessions
of a perfection so blinding,
a passion so profuse,
i g(a/i)ve in - always.

[i never should
have let you
touch me.]