Hands

You give me one palm and I wonder
how much it took for it to shape,
the scar on the left, the mole beneath your finger
the cords you held, sometimes I even think
of the hands you caressed, softly whispering
in the ears some details, of hair-color, or lips
or new fashion, I look at the back of your palm, clean
lean, long fingers, only to want to tell you
I work hard at the details I place between your fingers because
I love the details in you,
the way I love your hands.