It’s just a small, shadow-casting hand

***
It’s just a small,
shadow-casting hand
that keeps playing Chopin.
It’s just a small hand
floating in a blissful sea
of white bed linen,
I feel like an art keeper,
an art handler,
with unsober expression,
lip-striding over your veins,
voicing my joy in sotto voce.
Arrested by your small hands,
I think I can spend
my life
chasing them,
bound to them,
thinking they hold the answers…
Your hands are masters
of unbalanced patience,
I’m ashamed of my weakness and lack of courage
either to mute them or to kidnap them,
instead
I haunt
from wall to wall and floor to ceiling
their red waltz
over a blissful sea of white bed linen,
your body suddenly turns into
a figure of Matisse –
the “Dance” painting.