Her hands...

Its her hands. In the end, the thing that really gets me. the way they move, with skilled intention. Ive watched her fingers spend hours making spiders out of beads and wire. And in the hospital, when I awoke from the edge of death, even through the haze of pain-killing narcotics, I can remember surfacing into conciousness, and feeling the warmth of her hand, holding mine. Even now I dont think she knows how much that meant to me, how much she means. How, when she's near me, the chemistry of my body changes, my brain waves go wonky. I become too aware of myself. too aware of her eyes, her ability. Im not myself and more myself. as her lips move. as she talks. as I watch her long fingers fidget.