If your hand should ever leave my side,
Should our fingers become wayward ships,
Such grievous sorrow my flesh would cry,
To feel the loss of your fingertips.
The shadow of warmth left by their touch,
The narcartic belief that they'd never return,
The body of famine that hungers so much,
Would languish and die if true such a spurn.
I recall their dance as they traipsed through the air,
Accenting your words in sudden caprice,
torrid and taut in lovers affair,
Then languid and soft at the point of release.
Their kiss without lips
So sate my desire.
Their words without pen,
A song they inspire.
So blended are they
Like water and sand,
A habor of solace
In a young maidens hand.
And should they remain smooth and fine
Free from ailments and cold,
Or aged and dappled
Wizened by time,
Their grasp, forever I'll hold.
For strength is not measured by beats of the heart,
Nor can the sun be judged in total eclipse,
Such murmur would sound should our hands ever part,
Such hunger in the want of your fingertips.
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