“I love a man who makes good use of his hands…”
She said as she gently traces the calluses on your left palm…
She buried her face in them and chuckled like a child.
There were artists who spends hours drawing and painting,
They painted her in different shades and drew her in different shapes…
She would arch her back and they would follow the lines of her spine while the paint trickles down her thighs…
It was tumultuous and bursting with endless tinctures.
But these artists, they love with their brush…
Barely touching her with their own hands.
Always a few inches away from reality…
almost always leaving her undone.
And then there are the Musicians…frisky and never mundane.
They pluck and they strum as she writhes under their charm…
Their hands are playful and they make melodies out of her sighs…
They leave her with messy hair and heart racing to the beat of their drums.
But soon as the music stops, their hands becomes cold and distant—
They love with their keys, strings and cymbals—
Melancholic for now but furious in an instant.
They make love with a spotlight, awaiting her applause and demanding her orgasms.
The Writers wrote prose and poems for her…
They spent hours describing their emotions– stringing words like lullabies.
To her, writers are home—they belong to the same pond
Where solecism is not a crime—and an ellipsis is a solace for confused hearts.
They tell her stories of gran valor…
They scream her name on paper with punctuations
For her every moan—every bite—every scratch.
But pens can be sharp and words tend to come easy
For a writer loves with his mind …
And a writer’s mind must be free—
They wounded her for inspiration, used her blood to write and made a novel out of her soul—
Her misery is their muse and her heart is just a platform.
“I love a man who makes good use of his hands—“
She whispered to you as she holds your grease stained hands…
Yours is the kind that can build things and can take things apart—
It’s mighty strong but when you hold me gently at night,
It claims me—my entirety.
You make me feel like all my ugly parts are worth holding gently.
You stroke me from the inside unpretentious and yielding.
I love every single bump, callus and scar on your fingers for
They speak of imperfections that we can both celebrate.
“I love a man who makes good use of their hands”—she said
Hold me. Lace your fingers around mine…
Make lazy circles on the insides of my palm.
Take me apart and build me again.
Make a home inside me…