Fingers

The tickle of your fingers against my palm always made me shiver.  I liked how you did that.  You never just reached out to grab my hand but you fluttered your fingers through mine like a butterfly flapping its wings.  Even better was how you never clenched your fist with mine, but simply sliced our digits alongside each other and let the magnetic pull hold us together.

Your fingers were longer than mine.  I guess they still are.

“You’ve got big paws but short claws,” you always said.

“The better to grasp you with my dear,” I always replied.

You have long, slender fingers.  I used to tell you that you could be a hand model.

“And you have expertise in hand modeling?”  You never could just take a damn compliment.  It always had to be a smart remark.  You couldn’t be easy.

You couldn’t be easy.

When we’d lay together one of my favorite things to do was take your wrist in my hand and trickle my fingertips over your skin like a slow dripping faucet.  They would skitter across your palm and cause your entire body to shake.  Then I’d delicately stroke your fingers, each one individually.

I wouldn’t stop until you made me because I loved your reaction.  The way you’d lean your head back and close your eyes.  Your lips would part ever so slightly and I listened to your sputtered breathing.  It was heaven you were in and I was plucking the harp.  I could only play one song but it was one of your favorites.  All the while my fingers were loving yours.

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