heavy weights

his hands are fragile, they can only grasp small things- like my hand or my chin. on high noons, his skin feels hot. oh, how i love to trace patterns with my nails along his smooth arm, chest, from his nape to the small of his back. warm brown eyes drink me in as if he can only live through me. and when he kisses me, there is that tiny second that he refuses to let go.

but his hands are fragile. and in its cusp are my laughter, my good night sleep, my wonderful day, my smile, the mirth in my voice. and they weigh much too heavy for such frail things.