because of your hands

because I looked at them

and not your face, at

your hands, 

the floor, my feet, but mostly at

your hands

and so, 

I saw the line suggesting

a creative lover,

one that shows 

a clever mind, 

fertile imagination, and

the mound by your thumb

that indicates passion

covertly 

I read the meaning of your finger shapes

long and articulate,

the depth of your spirit

as you moved your hands, and spoke softly to me

my own hands were shaking

as I rocked 

ever so slightly, back and forth

and as I write, I tremble

briefly

at the memory of your hands

because of your hands  link to pigpen poetry

important things

important things

I don't write,
write poems, 
anymore.

I used to.
write them
a lot, now
when I want to write about your mouth, and
how your lips would press, and the words were held
behind your teeth
or, years later how
my first taste of loukoumades
created a sensation in my mouth that made
my knees bend, and that when I put my fingers
on my lips to lick them,
I thought of you.

thought of why I used to,
used to write about
the important things,
like the shape of your mouth
and the sensation of honey on my tongue, and
old wishes for us.

then I remember,
remember how
you wouldn't look into my eyes
or touch me
unless you had to, and that,
and that, it was as if
you were afraid.

I don't write,
write poems,
anymore, because my words,
all of them, were for you, and
now I think I should
keep them,
keep them, for myself.