Hands

I don't miss him
For the nights we left behind.
Not for the gifts that
Slushed warmth in my gut,
And made me feel Divine.
I don't miss him
For the dreams towering,
Enormous castles of imagination -
They shall be rebuilt
In flying moments
Born out of a struggling
Woman swathed in boredom.

Let me make myself clear,
Let me define the exact way
My heart caves when I think
Of him, of a legacy I peer at -
Down in the dumps
Of my Saturn heart,
Aflame with the rush
Of breezing on to medieval
Shores of blooming otheromances,
I miss his hands.

I miss the jungles planted
In my being all at once,
When his carresses caused
Ancient sounds to escape
From the o-shape of my mouth.
Hands that were really
The wave of exotic trees
Dancing to tidal moods
Of a distant unforgiving sea.

Long unkempt hands
In the make of a stringed instrument
Stirring songs out of discarded
Stories running through my body,
Stirring every sigh to cause a storm.
I miss his hands on nights
I lie with some other man
Writhing uncontrollably in mine.