Your hands tell the tale of
the meeting of two pure hearts,
they know of the nights spent
under the moonlit stars,
wavering and weeping, softly
they whisper into my ears.
Your hands tell the tale
of the spring and the fall,
the seasons of love and lost
they witnessed them all.
Your hands open the gates
that were never shut,
they reached into my heart
and began to strike the strings,
playing the notes of thunder
tenderly at first, rising slowly
it spoke of the raindrops
that witnessed our love
pouring on your skin
cleansing itself.
Your hands spark the fire
intensifying my rage
like the angels ballerina
the flames began to dance
flowing with the sound of thunder
burning my soul…
Your hands, sweet hands,
they tell a tale...
