For my dearest Magic Hands

Upon the window sill I sit
The day has long been done.
I look into the room brightly lit
Until i find the one.

There she sits looking away,
Another direction, not at me.
But that has always been that way;
I am captivated and cannot be free.

Her fingers move, nimble and quick,
Beauty radiating through her fingers.
It could be an illusion or trick,
But where she touches her beauty lingers.

And while she makes her art
A laugh escapes her lips.
And while her laughter touches my heart,
The paper kisses her fingertips

How fortunate that paper is
To be touched with such tenderness.
The feeling of utter bliss
To feel her silent music's caress.

I fear one day she will find me.
Her eyes might meet my own.
They will burn with intensity,
The burning in which passion is shown.

She will see me and who I am.
She may turn away.
She may be a curious little lamb,
And look deep into eyes that betray.

Either way she causes me fright.
Or rather, the possibilities.
The fear warns me to take flight,
But I stay with a mind of blasphemies.

So now I wait every evening
Wondering what goes on in her mind.
Looking at those fingers decieving.
Trying to look through the mask and behind.

Behind, I expect, could be blinding.
I know there it is beauty at its height.
Her true colors are hiding,
Too great to be seen in the light.