your hands

you cut off the tip of your finger last time we talked.
and look, it is growing back.
will your feelings for me grow back too?
or are they still there, under the surface.
is that why you can't stare into my eyes so easily?
you know how i feel, and you know what i want.
you don't want to be disappointed, or disappoint me.
is that it?
the hollow of your neck always smells good, and you always say you are stinky.
tonight you said you probably smelled of ketchup.
that is just so gross.
but you didn't.
and we ate late night dinner together, even though i wasn't hungry.
things were more relaxed this time, you in my furry fleece.
me, warming you up like a little kid.
we exchanged stories and hopes for the future.
then i saw your hands, weathered and scarred.
you looked and me and said they looked so old to you.
then you pulled them inside your sleeves.
i pulled one out, and held it.
they are working hands.
you told me on our first date you liked my hands because they were like yours,
accustomed to working. strong. plain. a year ago.
under the table your legs clamped around one of mine, like a hug.
you took my hand and moved it onto your face so i would pet you.
and i wanted to say too much, but held back.
i just thought it, instead. and you closed your eyes and leaned into my hand.
why is there so much affection between us?
why do i feel my cells screaming out to have your baby when i have never wanted one?
the amazing ache returns, but not so much that i can't breathe.
i will just wait on you....not push pause on my life.
i will just keep a little key under the doormat and hope you want to come into my heart sometime.
when you have enough to give.
when i can let you in.
when maybe just maybe we can love each other.
really, really love each other.
you told me you are patient and hardworking when making progress toward a goal.
you stay true to the course.
i will learn from you on this, and try to be patient with you.