Lee Majors in Fingertips

how tragic that my hands are not embedded

with silk or diamond-encrusted—

even a rose petal or two would work

to make them fitting to run over your skin

as you sleep.

you tell me that you ache, that you want it

so badly, but i think we both know that

i want it so badly, so you can’t help

but feel a little sorry for me.

i suppose that is why i wish my hands

were more than spoiled flesh:

i wish they were something soft to make you want

to fall asleep;

or even something sharp to cut off

all those chunks of your body

that you seem to hate—but i truly love—

just to get you to stop wincing over their sight.

i wish my hands were something more than they are

so i have an excuse to use them on you

like cunning pistols in a Western.