My Hands

My hands With the fingers Brushing through your hair Searching for the freshness Of your skin Like a thirsty traveler Looking for an oasis My hands Restless curious That loved to touch the keyboards Of the sky's Grand music My hands With the fingers That often concealed The sign of victory Or were crossed For luck My hands With nicotine stains And pollen With a pencil's trace From pressing too hard Or with tips smashed From beating on the keys My hands Trying to keep In their palms The running water of time When I am out of breath They'll tap from within The wooden coffin To tell of the desires Only they know