Thoughts While Watching His Hands
By Jessica Scott
Long and graceful, elegant hands,
should belong to a pianist or violinist, perhaps, though
currently he is talking with them,
painting pictures in the air of something he sees in his mind’s eye.
I watch them, fascinated with every graceful arc of his long fingers.
I imagine them tanned and warm, rubbing coconut-scented oil into my skin
-dried sand sticks to his fingers feeling like stubble rubbing against
tender flesh-while a Spanish breeze flutters the palm leaves above our heads
and the waves crash and splash playing tag with the sand
and our towels.
I lick my lips and can almost taste the salt from the water,
Or maybe the tanginess of the margarita we’d ordered earlier
And shared between sultry, torrid kisses;
It’s my fantasy, and I can weave it any way I want the way he’s weaving
words with those hands that I can feel leaving scorch marks on my cool skin
even though he hasn’t touched me once,
and the gloomy rainy day is as far from the tropics
as I am from his awareness.