My Weakness

His hands

Peaking out below the window that separates cooks from the service floor. 

Enchanting 

The way they turn over and flex while griping various ingredients. 

Only in rush hour do our bodies, get to share space in a room, yet I lose myself in those brief moments where I can see nothing but his braced, summer stained forearms tighten to lift a ceramic plate into the warming window. 

Will they be gentle? Will they be hungry? Will those strengthened fingers hold firm around my jugular pulsing? 

Helpless, I yield to the numbing sensations his trace leaves against my skin. 

His hands , the way they explore, blazing trails for his lips to follow. 

Now our bodies share space,

in our bed in a room.

His hands I'm still watching

God give me years of this view.