My hands are small, they fit in your fist
They’re soft, and daunting, well you get the gist.
My hands reach the chords, I’ve trained them to
They reach the headboard, they touch you.
They know your beard, that telltale stubble
They know your back, they feel in double.
They know each blemish and each groan
They know your chest, what makes you moan.
With each fist I make
My body starts to shake
With riddled sobs that wrench my gut
They pound the keys in toneless rut.
They cover my mouth and wait for the lips
They wait to remember the touch of your hips
Against my inner thighs they press
And make me utter that cry of distress.
My hands, them being small, fit in your fist
Yours are rough, and calloused, they’re what I’ve missed.
They leave traces on my skin light and barely there
Its at these carpenter tools I stare.
Making me yours with your messiah like fingers rough
They’re experienced and wise, yet somewhat gruff.
I need them on me at all times
Teaching me things, quieter than mimes.
Pulling me near and stroking my hair
I glance at my bed and wish you were there.
This desire transcends all my need
I need your tongue on which to feed
For you to put my hands in your fist
I’m tired, I’m lonely well….
You get the gist.

 
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