Thursday, January 10, 2013

Old Hands

I have old hands,
But that doesn't have to mean
They are rough.
They are simple,
Delicate hands that yearn
To brush a bit of hair
Behind a woman's ear,
With fingers that linger
Down her back
In the heat of a moment;
A moment that may
Double or triple its own time
Do to passion.
It is true, my hands
Have known women.
They are old hands, and what
To expect from the elderly?
I may not be the norm
But am still quite inviting,
I assure you.
These hands began to wrinkle
At the age of eighteen
Now with years gone by
In numbers I dare not announce
You may be able to catch
Their age from counting veins.
Be aware, hands age
At the same rate as hearts.
They are the one part of
A man that says how deep
His soul may be. And maybe,
How lovely. I have old hands.
If only you could learn to love me.

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