Aesthetics of skin, nails, knuckles, bone Does not exist in The beauty of hands Lending help when needed is seen. Pulling a bloody tourniquet tight in the midst of battle, Swinging a hammer to build a house, Raking earth to plant a garden, Painting a work of art, Cradling a child to sleep, Caressing a lover’s skin. A lifetime of doing is the beauty of hands.
Behind you, the window blinds closed. A faint early morning light Surrounding you as you slip from bed, clutching a silky robe. Your cloak of confidence worn to shreds by the shyness of your fingers flexing round the collar of the robe before you slip it over you— my breath stolen away to look at you then–
Then I knew– Byron had it wrong with all his talk of night. As did Botticelli with his giant shell. As I watched you slip from bed in the early morning light, a word occurred, just a word, a simple thought, ran through my head, I’ll not say it for you’ll not believe it.
Since I can not give you my eyes with which to see, and with your own you see only flaws and imperfections of time magnified, as do we all, I know. Yet add the all, the total, the in and out of you together, you standing there, golden, your fingers clutching the collar of a silky robe– my breath stolen.
Had Byron or Botticelli seen, perhaps then, with their high art and immeasurable talents, it would have been captured, as so many artists have tried and failed to do. Then you would see Yourself with my eyes that see— in this soft, golden light of early morning, a being of some ancient religion who decided to take flesh and walk the earth.
In a lifetime, my words never capturing, my talent far too small, too paltry, too pedestrian to ever encompass all— everything I see in everything I feel for the everything you are
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