Your Hands

I'd begin with your hands,
their softness flying over me.
It is as if they were destined,
like two wings folded on my chest ending their journey.
I recognized them before I ever touched them,
before they existed and passed over me like the starved gale.
I love the handfuls of earth you are,
hungry for the pale stones of your fingernails,
your almond skin forged on my recollection.
I remember the anguish of your hands,
the yearning to dissolve it rushed through me.
And then your hand fluttered,
closed its wings over my eyes
and swallowed the darkness.