The hands of a mason

Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

Brazen
Bloodied hands
Clumsily kneading a women’s heart
She wants to believe he’s oblivious to the pain caused by pressing fingertips
But his knuckles digging in, pushing tissue from tissue
Say otherwise

He takes his shirt off and uses it to wipe the sweat from his forehead
He’s hot
His hair is too long but one must suffer for appearances
That is a rule he accepts
Save that, the man is rebellious, even when it gets in the way
Especially when it gets in the way

It’s not that she doesn’t admire the dissent or the bare skin
In fact, she treasures both
It’s just that she doesn’t have the energy
To soften his touch
Or draw circles around the obvious signs
Or remind him to leave his muddy boots in the past, outside