His hands
on the back of my neck
running an index finger
on every blue little vein.

His hands
clearing away
the rush hour traffic
in the highway of my mind.

His hands
always memorizing
the curves and the lines
he said he needed to taste.

His hands
on me
the closest
I have ever gotten
to believing in a higher power.

His hands
always on my mind
always frantic
unbuttoning
undoing.

His hands
fire and ice
striking his matches
our lips
heavy with sunset smoke.

His hands
always
burning me up
always
fucking me up.

Always making me
remember
that his hands
and his lips
don’t exist anymore.

Always making me
remember
that his hands
are no longer
mine to love.
Not anymore.