The Memory of Hands

This is what you do not know.
My hands have memory.

Memory of your skin, soft in the morning,
the warmth of you, the energy.

Memory of each line and curve
they have ever touched.

Memory of your tears, wet
with sadness and joy, memories
of your cheek as my fingers caress
your face late at night.

They forget nothing, these hands of mine.
They remember each dress you have worn,
the fabrics, the feel of them against your body.

They remember the way you move when you dance,
or when we walk, arms around each other, through a crowd.
They remember the velvet touch of your hands,
softer than a flower’s petals.
They remember the most intimate joys.

Unlike my brain, which fades with age,
my hands, never, ever, ever
forget.

The feel of you lives in them,
forever.

About this Poem

My hands really do have a memory all of their own.

The flower picture was taken in front of my house. Cosmos. One of my favorite flowers. Touch a petal sometime. If you do, it will likely remind you of your lovers skin.

Tom