You mold me like plaster
in the tight grip of your
chiseled hands
from working out in fields,
fixing all those cars
and every song you've ever played
has made those hands
driving yourself to hell knows where
taking a buzzer to your hair
and all the shots, drugs cut and rolled
have engraved those hands
and now,
here sits she
he thinks she's an angel
her eyes like the sea
voice like a dove
in which she craves
he's learned to love
he picks her up slowly
holds her warm and safe
until springtime slowly makes her way
her heart, a delicate beat
softly saying
I am privileged to be held by such hands.
sigh him.