Love poem.

I like hands (especially yours).
To find the inner crevices, to trace the wrinkles, to brush the tiny hairs (while we walk hand in hand).
I've often though about my hands and how I'd like them to feel (yours are so soft and oddly so).
I want hands that tell a story (when you hold them).
Of curiosity (endless).
Of adventure (eternal).
Hands scarred, marred.
Flawed (yes, of course).
I don't want delicate hands wrapped in delicate gloves to be handled delicately with care (please don't ever handle me with care).
I want hands wrapped, unwrapped, rewrapped, shipped across states, shipped across seas, shipped across galaxies, fed-exed (to you), recieved, adored (by you), forgotten, found, sold, bartered, used, reused, recycled, composted, thrown out, discovered, and cherished (by Someone) until they fall apart.
My hands will be story hands (as we walk hand in hand).

(your fingers become my fingers.
my hand becomes your hand.
we will make a story for our hands to tell to the hands of our futures.)