I remember
Looking down at her fingers
When she forbade me
To look into her eyes,
Ringed fingers
Some of the time.
Animated with
A life of their own,
Gestures telling tales
I struggled to read
As private sign language
Not so much dedicated
To the deaf,
But for those gifted enough
To understand these
Messages she would
Share with no one else,
Tales of adventure,
Of woe, of hunger,
Or of lust,
Fingers sometimes poised
Into a temple
Before her face,
The tips touching
The edge of her lips,
Seductive, teasing,
Unbridled when moving
About, a billboard
To her soul, about her life
Her aspirations
Carving art out of the air,
Fingers touching
And aching to be touched,
Only not by me.
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