8 Hands.
He’s really shy,
but he always wants to come
with me.
A last-minute message,
a whisper of need,
not sure who leads, who follows,
but we always arrive together.
His name’s the only one
I know in this vast, steamy room,
but names fade in the heat—
Here, we’re just bodies,
lost in what we might become.
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Four bodies, eight hands—
A dance of limbs in the dark,
a tangle of breath and skin,
where boundaries blur,
and desire speaks in silence.
Hands find me everywhere,
tracing lines I can’t define.
Whose touch? I don’t need to know.
We slide into each other,
Surrendering to the blur of flesh.
I DON’T KNOW WHO YOU ARE—
But in this moment, does it matter?
We meet as fragments,
intimate strangers in the dark,
touching without names,
leaving only whispers behind.
Fingers entwine with fingers,
a caress from one, a slap from another—
Each hand a story I’ll never hear,
each touch a wordless conversation
where names are forgotten,
but the body remembers.
And as we part,
I’ll forget the faces,
the names I never learned,
but the feeling lingers—
Four bodies, eight hands,
and the echoes of a night
where identity was just a shadow,
and all that mattered
was the way we made each other feel.
