Those hands will be able to open doors when I forget my keys, accompanied always by a wicked whisper about violating his parole. They'll be able to chop onions even when his eyes blur with tears, the perfect moment to act out the final scene in Braveheart on the kitchen island. Freedom!
His hands will be made for guitar strings and puppy baths and French massages, which are much more romantic than Swedish, he'll inform me. They will be. Merci.
My boyfriend's hands will be strong when he's shaking others, gentle when he's holding babies, and light as a feather when one rests on the small of my back. They'll pull me up and hold me down and lead me everywhere. They'll drive me across town and drive me mad. When he covers my eyes before a surprise, they won't smudge my shadow.
My boyfriend's hands will be strong when he's shaking others, gentle when he's holding babies, and light as a feather when one rests on the small of my back. They'll pull me up and hold me down and lead me everywhere. They'll drive me across town and drive me mad. When he covers my eyes before a surprise, they won't smudge my shadow.
And if he gets home first from a long day of work, there will be no sight more wonderful than seeing him barefoot and shirtless and holding a freshly mixed Martini made just for me.
Good hands. Yes. Add that to my list.
Do you have a playmate of your own? Are you keeping a list like mine? Tell me some of your wishes, please? I'd love to hear them! Photos from here and here.
