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I've been touched.

He did it. And so did you.

And all the while, I had little voices screaming in my head
Devils and cherubs wrestling on my shoulders
And while you professed your love
I thought about how all men have different hands.

His are rough. Oil covered. With cuts and scratches and scabs.

He has the hands of a working man.

And when he touches me I know he's fixing things
Just like he fixes old cars and makes them new.
He'll send me home in mint condition to my happy owner,
Just like he does machines.
And every time I call him from now on,
I'll be a job to redo because he didn't do it well enough the first time.

His hands are nothing like yours. Yours are freckled. And strong. And needy.

Your hands are in desperate want of something delicate and perfect to hold.

And when you run them over me, its softer than the satin sheets
That are wrapped around my body.
Your hands make my body a temple
While I wrestle with the passions you ignite inside me.
And it's so hard to say goodbye to hands that were made with such love.
But they're such fragile hands…

His hands scare me so much less than yours.

His hands are made of silver, like mine. Pretty, but common. Yours are platinum.

And it would be wrong to say that your hands are too good to run over my body.
Or that your hands are better than any man's
Or that you hands are the only hands made of satin freckles.
It would be wrong to admit that his hands make me feel loved
But it would be a lie to say that they keep me safe.
And between the two of you, I have learned the touch of every man.

I have again been touched, and every hand feels different.