Day 13. Love underneath my fingertips

You must’ve noticed that there is no day 12. There was a simple reason I skipped it. I simply couldn’t think of a person I hate. So instead of breaking my head over it, I decided I’d go to day 13.

Day 13. Write a love scene from the point of view of your character’s hands.

 

I must admit that it is quite an unconventional little love story, but I think there is some beauty hidden in this poem-like tale.

Hands

Most of my romances are short. Grazes, glances, glimpses.

A brush here and there, a short touch once in a while. I hold paper and coins, pens and phones. I smooth out clothes, I pick up forks, I wash dishes, I clean houses.

But once in a while, every so often, I get to do more than just be functional. I get to do more for my human than help.

I get to feel.

Not always. And not that often. Most of the times, my human decides what to do with me. And I follow. I allow myself to be used for their purpose.

But once in a while, every so often, I can do my own thing. After so many years, I know exactly when that moment comes.

It only happens when my human is with another one and they are sharing something between them. Something beautiful and urgent. Something passionate.

And I help. I touch and I am touched. I caress, I rub, I hold, I tease and I please.

I don’t really know what those humans are doing exactly. But I know how it feels. And when this happens, I prepare myself.

Sometimes my human reaches a peak or a high, that they can’t truly reach on their own. And when they do. I become free.

They lose control. Their minds take a break and I know that she loves that. She has been working in overdrive. Her legs give out and as they tell me, they love it.

But I don’t stop. I can’t stop. This is the one moment that I can truly feel. That I can really touch without the guidance of my human.

And I get to explore… I get to explore her.

I always rejoice under the feel of her skin. It is so refreshing because even though she has become so familiar under my touch, I can never predict how she is gonna feel underneath me.

At times, she is cold. She shivers and I could graze myself over the small bumps that formed underneath my touch.

Other times, she is hot. And as she melts under me, I melt from her heat.

If it was a bad day, she is dry. Her skin could be chapped and all I could do was rub her soothingly. Hoping that somehow, it would make her feel better.

If it was a good day, she is wet. Not all of her, just parts of her skin. Parts of her landscape.

She was beautiful.

Even though I could never see her all at once, I had travelled over her so many times that I had a good idea of the big picture.

She had soft, plump hills that invited not just the tips of me, but welcomed me fully. And every time I caressed the smoothness of her skin, she would smoulder under my touch, like ashes in a dying campfire.

My human seemed to love her hills, so I had touched and loved them many times. But it didn’t really count. It never counted unless my human fell into that lull after her high and let me roam mindlessly over her lover’s body.

Sometimes I visited the endless wasteland of softness that laid underneath her hills. It was a desert that I could draw figures in and shapes on. They were invisible, but they left their mark somewhere else. They left a mark on a place I couldn’t see, but I knew it anyway.

But that wasn’t all. It wasn’t just her skin I could touch.

When I touched her. When I felt her underneath me. I could feel something more than just flesh.

There was something pounding underneath her. Something that vibrated through her very being and left me completely and utterly astonished.

We have something like that too. My human calls it a heartbeat, but I know it is just our heart travelling in between all of us. All of us that somehow are connected to the will and mind of this human.

But when I touch her, it doesn’t seem like just her blood travelling to her parts. It seems like something… More. Something much more.

And even if it is just what it is, I don’t mind. All I know is that it quickens every time I graze over her.

When I touch her, she becomes mine.

But it never lasts very long. The high my human is on, quickly disappears and when it does, the clouds lift and she gets back in control.

The circles and the figures stop.

And while I might still touch her skin, I no longer choose what to caress or what to tease. I can’t pick the places I want to visit or choose where I want to linger. When the fog lifts, my human takes control and I go back to being what I was.

Hands.

That is it.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

Just hands.

Previously: Day 11. A mermaid’s love

My twist on a classic myth.

 

Next up: Day 14. Fuck you

A poem filled with frustrations

 

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  1. Pingback: Day 11. A mermaid’s love – Arizona Type

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