Missing

His hands
look familiar
and sitting here,
I remember them, sitting here
close to mine
sometimes so close
hand in hand
we sat
and I could see that his would color like mine
if we spent days in the sun
our hands would race
to places
if we spent nights under the moon
and finding each other,
we would find each other
with hands that matched
by the sun's virtue
the virtue of full light
exposing all
by the grace of our hands and our eyes,
could we know
as we touched and as we looked.
His hands are hands that could know me,
and his eyes have already seen me,
oh, he's seen me
by sun and by moon he's seen me,
by darkness of day and brightness of night
he has witnessed me
by wine and whiskey and coffee vapor
has opened the channel
guided by spirit
our eyes and ears on each other
our voices in between
meet
as sometimes our hands met.
His hands
hold a cigarette,
my attention,
and it's simple,
I miss them.