Around your ice cream cone

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I look down and there they are. You hands around mine. The ones that were just recently covered in ice cream. You refused a dilly bar and instead went for the drippy twist. You got chocolate on my floor. I don't mind, because you hands are mine now. I would never mind. Warm, worn. Your nails are practically non existent since you started that nervous habit, habits. And your fingers are smooth from so much wire play. That was the first thing I really knew about you, guitar. I felt it on your hands, and the way you resisted the wobbly, clashing, distorted music we danced to. Your thumbs are so smooth, like marble. I love your hands, so sure of mine. Always there when I just barely brush the back of your hand with my pinky. Welcome home hands.

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