Your hands are perfect,

molded by lava in the sun.

The perfect length,

girth,

and tone.

I’ve never seen

better hands.

The knuckles are precisely round,

almost like god himself

chiseled them out of stone.

The perfection

is remarkable.

As you pass the ball

I can’t help but stay focused

on the one true glory on the court.

The knuckles.

Her nails are painted bright red

the color of lust

and I can’t help but think

what those hands can do.

Her wrist movement

is impeccable,

her fingers

are gorgeous,

and those knuckles

couldn’t be any better.

I can imagine

being punched by those hands

would feel like an angel

boxing with clouds.

And suddenly,

a powerful force

nails my forehead.

The basketball was in my lap.

I had been distracted

By the beautiful

hands.