Handful of Dreams

Long, slim fingers gesture in the air articulating his thoughts with eloquence. Sometimes I get lost in my words as I focus on his hands which typically rest quietly as if waiting for my whispers to permeate his skin and breathe gentle life into hidden veins. Soft hands betray no secrets except how his money is earned as he moves through hallowed halls. His fingers touch cold door knobs which open into dimly lit rooms with scarred desks and metal file cabinets and only enough space for the past and future to collide between us.

I lose coherent thought often in his dark eyes and imagine his fingers caressing moist lips and touching my cheek to smooth away tears. Thinking of interlocking hands, I almost feel his strength course through my body. I wonder if he would touch my hair feeling the smooth weight before tucking loose locks behind one ear. When he reached my heart would he hold the fragility long enough for his pulse to match each tender beat? Would his hands blaze hot trails on my skin searching for new paths to ancient destinations?

Watching as he holds his pen loosely between practiced fingers, I soon am again lost in thought and time and place.

Until his fingers stretch out to cover the distance,I will hear his words float in space before touching my heart. I will feel his kindness find space in my soul. I will look at his hands and imagine myself tightly held. I will dream.