Under the Table

Under the table I miss your hands. I miss them silently gliding to find mine, silently weaving your fingers to entwine; my small hands waiting for your touch stretching to reach you they don't ask for much. Under the table I miss your hands. When laughter is loud with chaos above your hands settle on mine, gentle as a dove, and promise a sanctuary no one else can see I miss your hands and their strength searching for me. Under the table I miss your hands. I miss the refuge they want me to take, when your attention demanded by all threatens to break you have kept a room in your heart where only I can go and there my hands hold you and through them my love you know.