Number Eight
It's always fiddling with something, 
and I'm not sure exactly why, 
but I was always fascinated 
with its grace as it holds a pencil, 
your scrawl sprawling across the page, you in deep concentration,
or its efficiency when handling a hammer, 
or its handiness as it holds the bags as we shop.
I've always loved its warmth on the small of my back
as I smile, face buried in you chest, 
the glow of success veiling us like a mystic fog,
or its strength as it clasps on my stomach,
your arm wounding around my waist affectionately,
or its gentleness on my own, 
firm, but not willing to ever let go.