Hands
by Alexandria 

It’s the hands. Those perfect hands, those perfect thin tapered fingers.
Skin parchment pale, tinged faintly blue.

It’s the hands that traced my skin that first night, pressing the bandages
to my neck, desperately shaking as he stopped the bleeding.

It’s the hands that prove his love in the way his fingertips caress my
wrist, dancing over my pulse, hesitating for just a moment to feel the
beat there.

It’s the hands that break me every time, reaching around to stroke me,
fingers warmed from pressing so gently into my flesh.

It’s the hands. The hands now cradling my face.