Man, all three of those kill. I love the line about men coming to life under them.

Another memory, same set of hands, from the rock and roll years:

Roll

Hot music, hot night, hot stage lights.

She's got her high heels on, her leather, a killer hat with a veil that she bought in Paris a long time ago.

The band is rocking; guitars trading off and the bass stitching the rhythm, oh yes, oh baby.

She's used to him playing the stadium gigs, fifty thousand screamers, faceless. This small club, impromptu, it's better.

The lead singer purses his famous lips, the bassplayers drops a walking line into the mix.

Piano time. WHAM, his hands hit the keyboard.

Later, when the show's over, his hands come home to her.

Maybe I've just not met the right girl, Plei. After all, I've got a very strong connection to both Willow and Bayliss, which points to either a same-sex experience or murdering somebody nobody will miss very much sometime in my future. I think being with a girl would have fewer legal ramifications. :)

I want to do this drabble, but I have to wait for another subject to come out of my head. I do not want to dwell on what's in my head. (It's in regards to death, not anything that's happened to me, in case anyone was wondering.)

Third one, autobiographical, as are the first two. This one has nothing at all to do with music.

Damage

I'm sorry, the surgeon says.

I'm seventeen and my hands are destroyed. They're barely recognisable; the tendons are displaced, the bones bent, the skin puckered and burned.

Wow, says the surgeon, and carefully moves the light, examining the carnage. I've never seen damage quite like this.

I picked up the back end of a Cadillac - amazing stuff, adrenalin. We fell off a mountain, I thought my goddaughter was underneath. The metal was hot.

We may not be able to fix it, the surgeon says.

Sweating, I manage to bend all the fingers of my right hand except the middle.

Oh, that's funny. In a brilliant way. I like how, to me, it's in response to the surgeon's intellectual response to her emotional pain.

Geez, Deb. That's white-hot fuckyou, Dr. Kildare, isn't it?

Like I said, autobiographical. He was astonished by it - it took about 45 seconds to do it, too.

Man, I was a musician. Don't tell me you can't fix this shit.

Man, I'm an angsty teenager if ever there was one. And I'm not even a teenager. Anyway, first submission:

I wonder what it would feel like to take her hand in mine. To take her hand, to feel her touch, to connect physically, intimately, for the first time.

And holding would lead to squeezing, and squeezing to caressing, and then, suddenly, the future...

I'll be playing with her fingers. One by one I'll count them and rub them, as I tickle her palms. Our hands, our bodies, our lives - connected. A kiss, a smile, and I'll lie down next to my love, my only love, and be happy.

If only...

If only I could take her hand.

That's ultrasappy, dude. But it's sweet.

Our hands, our bodies, our lives - connected.

This is a nice bit, and I think one that could be expanded. As it stands, it's still a bit over the top, but I like the concept.

Of course it's sappy. I'm a sappy guy.

Also, I kinda meant it to be over the top.

Don't you ever get super-sappy-gross when you first have a real crush on somebody? Most of the poem is meant to be imagination, the overactive, impossible imagination of somebody (me) when in the earliest, flirtatious, not-even-a-relationship stages of a relationship. A silly dream of the perfection that might be, but probably won't.