Cold Hands Poem by Genevieve Surrender
Cold Hands
It was evening
and dinner hadn't started.
Her hands were cold
upon the silverware.
Her eyes surveyed
the tablecloth,
the napkins,
the good china.
The night was perfect.
Low lights.
High ceilings.
Cold hands.
She touched his cheek
and felt his heat.
She whispered
sweet nothings in his ear.
The night was perfect.
Her hands were cold
upon the handle
of the butterknife.
He was still warm.
the words have a simple grace, the woman seems to have reluctance or nerves but I'm certain her sweet nothings will lead to warm passion.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/24/2024 1:35:22 PM # 1.0.0.1119
uriah... read it again.