the knuckles that brush the arch of my brow
as the darkness of slumber
consumes my conscience.
the heel that kneads my muscles when they are
cramping and aching from exertion.
the fingers that ward off the drops of salt water
cascading down my profile.
the fingernails that trace poetry on my skin in the
wee hours of the night.
the palm that rests on my hip as our feet
step in patterns on the kitchen floor.
the hands that keep away nightmares of lost dreams
and hopeless memories.
not nearly as enticing as a pair of evergreen orbs,
or as ravishing as a set of pink voluptuous lips,
but wouldn’t you say they’re far more remarkable
than anything else that’s touched your soul?