“We play at paste,
Till qualified for pearl,
Then drop the paste,
And deem ourself a fool.
The shapes, though, were similar,
And our new hands
Learned gem-tactics
Practising sands.”

-Emily Dickinson.

Fingertips linger upon skin
I trace my answers
As if my hands are mouths
Tongues lapping at the salt
The sunrise rests upon you
Layers of pink, orange and yellow
Glisten upon your face
And my gaze
Falls into your eyes
Your name
The horizon upon my tongue
And our love, I devour
Slowly eating with every touch

Flickering, you shine within my eyes
Shooting stars, and I grab your hand
So we can fly, you take me to the moon
And show me the world
In the curve of your smile

Beneath my skin, a raging fire
Pulsating, throbbing within me
A suffocating heat, a blistering pyre
Don't touch me, you will get burned
But there is nothing I want more
Than to place your hands upon my heart
To thaw and melt
The ice which binds them.

I'm afraid of my own hands

I cannot trust them
because I know were they've been
and it is hard to wash away the past

I try to hide them and keep them as far away from me as possible
to protect myself from them

but these are the hands that feed me
and bathe me
and touch me

I have to trust them but I can't
I'm afraid of my own hands

Woven tight the hands of fate
You or me can both relate
For trodden hearts and heavy fumes
Have carried us onto these tunes

I stand there still and wait for nigh
Where hands are held and hearts do cry
In nightly talks till break of dawn
We think of naught and dusk adjourns

Talking hearts and reddened souls
Have carried us up here once more
For heavy hearts and tangled hands
Are opposites O' grant me faith

Woven tight our hands of ice
A broken seal of fate's disguise
The steady flow of life in vein
For a skip of beat had touched our pain.