I have been thinking about hands.
I have small hands.
Small hands, long fingers, tiny wrists.
"My hands are small I know but they're not yours, they are my own."
Hands can express so much.
Holding a hand.
Conveying love, need, support...with the simplest touch.
"God has given us two hands, one to receive with and one to give with."
My hands can wash what's dirty,
rub oil into tight muscles,
comfort after nightmares,
pull you in for a kiss,
and seduce you with a pen.
"I love a hand that meets my own with a grasp that causes some sensation."
I remember holding Caden's hand when he was born.
I didn't count his fingers.
Just marveled at the little pink shell of a nail.
And how his eyes lit up when I touched his palm to my lips.
"A friend is someone who reaches for your hand but touches your heart."
I want your hands to tell me the truth.
I want them to say you will stay with me always.
I want to know that I am not loving in vain.
"What I want to see are those hands vowing never to leave my own."

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