Hands

His hand were worn, torn and bent, but warmth was hidden under callouses sprinkled with sunset orange freckles and a musky sent. The hands were never to make a sound but always to soften the dent. A cold mortal upon first glance but when looked upon he is alive with a golden dance. A song is sung among his pale skin, a rhyme is made in the image of him. He is far from complete but already art. This is the man. This is the start.

 Her hands are soft and warm, but lacking is depth and so curiosity is born. If he was to take her completely and whole they would form a bond their hands tangled and all. The world would still zoom, bubble and glow but together they are a miracle yet to be known.

Let them find one another, let them join in hand, let man and women become but a singular grain of sand. On an endless beach of copper partials is where they shall reside, simply joint side by side. He is rough and cores, she is the embodiment warmth. Hand in hand they will never fall, hand in hand they will concur it all.