Dinner and a Show

We're sitting at a table clothed in white

and you're overflowing with stories, drips

of emotion hanging on every word. Light

from candles dancing on your fingertips,

your personal puppets, with which you act

out each word that escapes from your mouth.

As your palms tense and relax, you distract

me from the story. Veins tangled about

your bones, flowing like rivers. God, I swear

I've never seen hands quite like yours. Rugged,

but soft as silk. Ornate but beautifully bare.

When they rested, I almost applauded.

Please don't hesitate from letting them reach

over, grasp my lonely hands, replace speech.