His Hand, My Bed, Half A World Away

Darla LeClair

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His hand is phantom to fold in prayer, wipe tears, smooth hair, to touch and protect, to visit me at night.

I am lifeless, until his caress crosses continents to be delivered at my door, and I am delivered.

In the words he pens I hear desire, radiating heat rises from each consonant and vowel, his whispers trace between the commas.

He leaves sentences open-ended, refusing to punctuate with an implication of finality, and I answer in kind.

His hand is sun-baked with snow white nails that scratch in the dirt, climb rough rocks as death flies by, and search for the missing pebble.

His hand is steady and trusts his gaze, his aim is true. I kiss the calloused palm, the scrapes and the blisters of this hand as it trembles.

This hand holds his life, my life, and it guides me into his paper declarations of esteem, devotion and passion.

Though his hand I see every night when the light is gone and the dark is frightening, deep sleep evades me.

My blood is burdened with a malady of dread and lamentation, steeped in a tea of sorrow that is sweet when I bow my head and succumb.

Succumb to the recitation of every lovely verse, inhaling his essence, pressing him to my lips as he is released from an envelope like a genie from a bottle. He is here now.

His hand is always placed with love, resting on the small of my back to guide me as we dance, holding me while we kiss before leading me to bed.

Tonight he is my pillow to smother and crush and to cry on. Dearest, do you sense this from half a world away? Can you smell my perfume?

His hand removes the sheet, and my bedclothes are his to do with as he likes. His hand removes tiny buttons from tight, tiny button holes, slides satin straps from shoulders and lifts the edges of a hem.

His hand on my breast causes me to sigh, on my thigh to shiver.

My knees become distant and his hand, with a silent moan, is placed between my legs. With mirror image I am carried away across continents.

His hand caresses, his hand explores, his hand searches for treasure while his breath sears my neck and scorches my thoughts. This phantom makes me hungry.

"Please go slow and savor the skin that shines like a silver bell." His guided hand ignores my plea and takes me from half a world away.

His hand holds me as I rock, his hand holds me when I cum, and will be sad when it waves good-bye.

As the clock ticks and seasons flow, the calendar never changes. My yearning does not cease, our paradise never expires.

Whether brown and warm with pulse, or pale and cold and still, I will always adore his hand. His hand will be my hand for the rest of my days.

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