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Thy Hands

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Your hands tell our Story. Our hands tell of our lives. On your old numbing fingers spread our geography. Do you remember our first time?

In the darkened alley by the bar without knowing what to expect. Your hand in mine. A kiss lasting forever.


Imagine what could have happened if they had caught us red-handed.

Do you remember that I told you that that taste of forbidden fruit made it even better?

If you had asked me, I would have satisfied you there, I would have stained my grey suit, falling on my knees in front of you on the dirty pavement.

I would have made anything for you and you know it.

You know it because in sixty years it never changed.

I remember your hands, of your greedy and curious fingers.

I was all yours and I'm still all yours.

You know everything I love.


You know how I like it.

We know our fullness and hollows.

Now, we know our folds and our furrows, our wrinkles and our creases.

Our spotty hands and our age-veiled eyes.

Not so long ago, they would have been desire-shrouded, a mere suggestion, brushing your thoughts was enough to set fire to us like too dry hay. Today, fire takes longer to catch but the flammer is still burning strong. May flesh betray us, but I'm still burning with love for you!

Nothing has changed.

Everything has changed.

Now I could kiss you in the street, to hold your hand. I could even marry you. You don't want to marry me?

You are right.

We are already married.

You tell me there is nothing more beautiful than those matching rings we exchanged in our room one day in the 70's. But you don't say no to a second wedding night.

Your teasing smile never changed.

We never changed: we only became more ourselves.