He smells like parchment
And dried, oolong tea.

He looks like a wolf.
But not really a wolf.

His smiling face,
Always smiling.

The Gods are his people.
He is in love with one.

Before him, is bright light.
He stares at it with much curiosity
And love.

His hands, cold.
After being exposed, all day long.

He never talks about his father,
But his grandmother lives far away.

He finds solace in sketching.
Adding many little details.

But what is his name?

Fingers.
Dancing across the keyboard.
Thoughts expressed with
A few strokes
Of a few keys.

Finger pads.
Punching.
Gliding.

A million things drift through
Her head…

The thoughts running like wildfire.
Coming undone
Through her fingertips.

A pause here
And there…
To gather her mind.

Confused.
And hurt,
But also happy
And content.

She finally rests her *******.
on the third button.
From the shift.

A period.
An ending.
A goodbye.

Brewing.
Steeping.
The leaves of the crunchy,
Dry,
Oolong tea.

He wanted the girl to love it.
As much as he did.
The chocolatey aroma.
Taste.
Smell.
All to be enjoyed by the girl.

He was excited for her to savor it.

Auburn orange.
Amber yellow.
How these colors swirl within the tea cup.

Dipping a spoon in to twirl it.
Left.
Right.
Counterclockwise.

At last, the tea was ready.
Cool.
Not too hot.
Not too cold.
Just right, like porridge.

Ready to be tasted by the girl.
He presented it to her.

She took the tea cup.
In her delicate hands.
Tipped it to her chapped lips.

The warm liquid
Glided.
Smoothly.
In her mouth.
Down her throat.

Her tongue, wanting more.
She smiled at the boy.
Before continuing to
Ravish her tea.

Your hand swipes furiously as you sketch the last remains of a sweater.
Lines.
Marks.
Messy, jaggedy, harsh lines.
Toppled over each other like pick-up sticks.

That girl has been on your mind.
The feel of the pen hard against soft fingertips.
Moving back and forth.
Lines.
Messy lines.

That girl.
The reason for this drawing.
You add her name to the cloak.
It is subtle but there.

The girl doesn’t seem to notice it.
You ask her to look a bit closer.
And.
There.
It.
Is.

Her name.
A hymn.
A prayer.
An answer.
To what?

Wishing Hands
I wish I could see your hands.
Sketching away… a life of its own.

I wish I could see your hands.
Holding a tea cup and sipping slow.

I wish I could see your hands.
Gripping the steering wheel, driving home.

I wish I could see your hands.
Flipping the pages of a worn out book.

I wish I could see your hands.
Holding my hand, an impossible dream.