I am enchanted by an artist with beautiful hands, pale and lovely.

From afar, I have memorized the way you hold your pencil, the way you coax your imagination to life with lead strokes and eraser shavings on white virgin paper.

I have memorized the creases in your brow, the way they manifest whenever you are intently focused. You always looked slightly angry at this point; your fierce concentration startles me sometimes.

I have memorized the way your fingertips are splayed on your paper canvas, holding it down with an urgent yet gentle force. It is almost as if you are afraid of your drawings taking flight, away from the bounds of earth. (Your paper is a fragile butterfly wing)

I have memorized the lyrics of your laugh, my heart sings to them everyday, following the dips and curves of your mirth.

I have memorized the notes of your voice, the way they fill up an enclosed room with sunny staccatos and lavender legatos and musky calandos. I could listen to them all night.

I have memorized the electrifying pull of your presence, I am almost always aware of your stealthy body moving across the floor or filling a pocket of space. I am aware of the atoms colliding whenever you are near. From afar, I have memorized your liquid movements, but you are unaware.

I am enchanted by an artist with beautiful hands, pale and lovely.

His hands are like poetry, I want to read them everyday. I want to memorize them and feel little butterfly kisses upon fingertip to fingertip, lovely stanzas I would never ever let go of.

His hands are like poetry, I could read them everyday. He dances around my head and weaves around my thoughts, he is poetry, the best poem I have ever read.

I am enchanted by an artist with beautiful hands, pale and lovely.