My Hands...
I touched you.
But, you were unaware
of my caress.
With my fingers,
I stroked the skin
of your satin cheeks,
investigated
the slope of your nose,
contemplated
the curve of your lips.
No movement did you make
as I traced finite lines
across your face.
Life does not exist,
deep within your
hollow, sightless eyes.
You are empty.
Your lovely face,
frozen in time...
neither grin nor frown
will be found there.
My hands slid
along your throat
teasing the nap of your neck,
but there was no sigh.
Across your breast,
a full embrace,
but no breath
escaped your chest.
From your shapely waist,
to your curvy hips
I molded you
with my gentle touch.
And, as I ran my fingers
down your spine,
not one glimmer of
shiver or giggle
did I find.
With a massage of craft,
I kneaded your legs.
first thigh,
then calf,
then arched foot.
I touched you,
but you were unaware
because
my hands
are made for clay.
