Frissons

I am attracted to vision of cracked hands.
To wrinkles and splotches from time well spent

A dancing pinky laughing
A rigid pointer with a sly glance
Their movement screams pleasure,
their pause needing peace

so I wait silently for you to offer me coffee.
In my mind
I am a teacup,
And you are a saucer to catch my expectations.

I am back to these hands,
the way they grip bent cars and flick smoke

Their voice has grown raspier,
faster,

softer,
LOUDER
And more special to hear.

I’m dreaming of the rings that took you from your ex to Peru
I am dreaming of the things you didn’t give up by sharing a womb.

I'm filling the time that swims between us by
finding the hiatus in your hands.