His Hands

                               

 I miss everything about my last lover, especially his hands

 I know, such a strange then to remember about someone.

 Yet those hands, large, rough scared and typically unkempt

With a dark line, signifying his lifeline running

 the length of his big brown palm,

.

The hands of a man that worked hard

That spoke of his dreams

His vision and passion for life

And his future, commanded me, demanded me.

Although they were hard and worn

They were the tools of a karma sutra master

the touch of a craftsman

used with precision and skill

A baby’s fine touch.

they felt like the finest silk

against my trembling hot skin.

 Rough and hard they moved

 so slowly over my expectant,

quaking flesh, affectively

Taking a leisurely slide down my core

 to rest atop my garden. Long, black fingers  

 Tracking the outline of wet panties

across my waist down

 between my wide thighs

thick fingers,  slithered, seeking

searching its darken prey, 

 sliding slowly inside hungrily

 thick lips blowing soft across my

 quivering exposed stomach

 anxiously awaiting more of

his probing hand 

 large hand exploring

 the numerous folds of my rich core,

 searching for heaven’s gate

his treasure found

 kissing my inner thigh.

The other caressing my hard nipples

 aching for more of his

  firm touch

Like a river damn, bursting

Open, flowing freely

My essences oozing until dry.

Watching him lick thick fingers

 like a child with ice cream

 running down

was my aphrodisiac

 I remember coming often in those hands

We’re no longer together

Me and the owner of those hands

Things just didn’t work out

 but God I miss his hands