Lee

I say, “HERE, TAKE MY HANDS,”
and he reaches out,
but he is surprised
when they fall off,
into his own arms.

He says, “WHAT THE?”
and I tell him,
“MY HANDS ARE CURIOUS ABOUT YOU,”
because this is perhaps
the sexiest way
to give someone
your bloody hands
freshly chopped from your wrists.

He disagrees: “I THOUGHT YOU JUST WANTED ME TO HOLD YOUR HANDS.”
I think this is strange,
because I clearly do want him
to be holding my hands,
so I say, “I DO WANT YOU TO HOLD THEM AND I WANT YOU TO BE CAREFUL WITHTHEM.”

Now he says, “I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH YOUR HANDS,”
and he is standing there,
looking at me,
looking at my hands in his hands,
my arms without hands,
his arms with an extra pair of hands,
hands that I sure don’t want,
that I thought he must have wanted,
even without me attached.

Nicholas Ruggieri is a damn bicon (bi icon, it’s a thing). When he isn’t writing, you’ll find him napping, napping, and, um, napping. After graduating from the University of Nevada, Reno he adopted two perfect puppers to crochet sweaters for. The three regularly spend their time barking for no reason.