His hands are very different from mine.

They are soft, without a wrinkle in sight,

His skin is perfectly smooth,

One could even say he glows.

He wears rings bedazzled with jewels,

Never forgetting to display them.

Then there is my hands and I,

They are rough and covered in dirt,

My skin is marred with scars,

The only ring I wear is the one we share

On our ring fingers to the left.

His hands still touch my face,

And cup my cheeks,

“Worry not, my love.” They say,

They reassure,

They tell me every day.

I shall not doubt his love for me,

For when his hands meet my own,

They say “You are the only man for me,

And I would not trade your rough fingers

For the softest in the land.”

And I shall listen.