fingersAnd QUOTES

1 " When you told me I didn't love youI simply thought how would you knowFor I remembered the spaces between your fingersAnd the crease between your eyesHow dare you tell meI never thought of you as mine. "

2 " Take hands.
There is no love now.
But there are hands.
There is no joining now,
But a joining has been
Of the fastening of fingers
And their opening.
More than the clasp even, the kiss
Speaks loneliness,
How we dwell apart,
And how love triumphs in this. "

― , The Poems of Laura Riding: A Newly Revised Edition of the 1938/1980 Collection

3 " I am going to hurt you.
You are going to hurt me.

But we will do it with practiced fingers
and passionate mouths
and I swear to god

it will be worth something. "

― Trista Mateer

4 " I love a man who tickles me awake with reality, and kisses me goodnight with fiction
Braids my hair with simplicity to compliment my contradiction
And calms the waging wars inside with a simple boyish look
For he is as much a mystery as he is an open book
When I am at my worst, I am beautiful by his side
He draws me in yet keeps me free, the moon to my tide
He relishes my quirks and antics just as much I love to keep him frantic
And if I ever fall, he doesn’t catch me right away
Because he knows I’ll glide
And even more so, knows how much I enjoy the ride…
With the strength I lack, he holds my insecurity safe in-between his fingers
And if there is ever a doubt while I am out running about
His steady grip lingers
He drives me crazy just as much as he keeps me sane
And has the wisdom to keep me wild knowing I’ll die if ever tame
So when I am far, he frets not, because he knows he’s my favorite destination
If ever I am down, he joins me on the ground and points out my favorite constellations

He catches my sighs and lackluster replies
With ageless humor and tenacity
I draw blanks at his capacity
And challenge his audacity
But
He wins because despite my stubbornness he is persistent
Yet forever fails because he belongs to nonexistent "

― Yesenia Barkley

5 " This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready
to break my heart
as the sun rises,
as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers

and they open —
pools of lace,
white and pink —
and all day the black ants climb over them,

boring their deep and mysterious holes
into the curls,
craving the sweet sap,
taking it away

to their dark, underground cities —
and all day
under the shifty wind,
as in a dance to the great wedding,

the flowers bend their bright bodies,
and tip their fragrance to the air,
and rise,
their red stems holding

all that dampness and recklessness
gladly and lightly,
and there it is again —
beauty the brave, the exemplary,

blazing open.
Do you love this world?
Do you cherish your humble and silky life?
Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath?

Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden,
and softly,
and exclaiming of their dearness,
fill your arms with the white and pink flowers,

with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling,
their eagerness
to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are
nothing, forever? "

― Mary Oliver