Updated: Apr 7, 2020
I would fill pages for your hands,
for your lead-lined fingers,
for the open wounds on your open palms.
I would sing ballads for your hands,
for your kind fingertips,
for your open palms on my open thighs.
I would mold sculptures for your hands,
for your calluses and your one bird knuckle.
A cigarette burn on the paleness of your wrist.
A thin white scar on your thumb from a knife.
You say you can’t do card tricks anymore,
but I know you are still capable of magic.