What can be discerned from holding hands?
A meshing of fingers, mirror images of my
Own. Strong, sturdy hands, though feminine
In dimension and appearance.  What can be
Gleaned from a gentle squeeze, a glancing
Look? Celestial lights, softly conveying
Affection, passion, desires of a woman who
Roams the ocean, the other guards the coast.

They are lovely hands, not the callused hands
Of a tattooed crab picker who smokes, drinks
And who will do anything for a bottle of Jack
And a few joints for the weekend. I know that
Type, a slow poison, hazard to navigation,
Requiring a circumferential, wide berth.

The hands I hold are delightful, inquisitive,
Intuitive, knowing when I’m fraught with pain,
Physical or emotional, needing a friend to talk
With, or as pulses play, someone to spend the
Night with, to snuggle, to tussle, or both. They
Are the hands of my girl, my buoy and my
Anchor, keeping me afloat and from drifting
Aimlessly away.

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