Sexual Lust & Original Sin

It was his hands that started them;
The fantasies. Eyes closed.

Long, slender, tapering fingers;
Piano hands they’d be called.
Gershwin’s concertos painting the air.
Wide square palms;
Hard with the scent of tar & salt.
Arms entwined in ropes, pulling on billowing sails.
Short broken nails,
From the plucking of strings,
Strumming the beat for dancers feet.

I open my eyes and steal a glance.
Yellow leaf stains on his unused finger tips.
And the fantasies fade,
Just as fast as they came.