Hands that touch
You touch your front with that usual gesture that I know so well. It means look at me and it has nothing to do with your rebellious red locks. Hands that mark the air, unpredictable like butterflies, hands colored by many rings, hands that let of lightnings like revolvers loaded with flowers. Impertinent hands that rest on your hips and say it all, they take me and sparkle while you do shhhhh! You touch my lips with your fingers, and leave me speechless. Now I have eyes only for your eyes, for the blue-purple, green-yellow trails, sea and leaves that leave me your caresses, the red marks of your rings that will return to awake our usual thoughts tonight. Hands that touch, rings that look like exclamation points, commas, suspended dots… waiting for you.
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