HANDS

My hands
are in love
with you
and they type
endlessly
something
about the miracle
of words
flowing
between us
almost sculpting
your presence
shaped perfectly
in this intricate mirror
of thought.

My hands
that invent
the wave
of your breath
and the candor
of your smile
are shivering
beyond
resigned hope,
for these
aching hands
fraught with desire
are typing
the very words
that
should have been
whispered
and which
will bury
themselves
in a file.
(C)MoonSonata
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