His Hands

An ode to one of my favorite parts of the body

It's said
you can tell a person's age
best
by their hands.
He
is twenty - five...
His hands
are forty.
They are thin,
strong,
and hard.
Long fingers,
large creased knuckles,
bitten nails.
The backs of his hands
are freckled,
one has a birthmark-
lighter than chocolate or
even cafe au lait
but standing
stark
against his white skin.
They are covered with
almost
invisible hair,
paler even than the memory
of a dream -
except when the sun shines
then they turn into
platinum.
His palms,
and the pads
of his fingers are
callused
and feel like the finest
sandpaper
on my skin.
He says my skin
feels soft.
His ring is white gold
and gold
with diamonds
throwing off sparks-
It looks like luxury,
incongruous
on a hand
covered with thin
white lines of scars from
cuts-
scratches-
gouges-
He doesn't understand
why I love
his hands.