Lost hands

We know it’s crazy, but we’ve lost our hands.
Don’t ask us how? like that. We’ve lost our hands.
How can that be? Have they been stolen
or did they simply tumble free?
We didn’t take them out. Yes, we’re sure.
They meant everything to us
and now they’re gone we’re gutted.
They were our heart and soul.

How we loved to ease our tranks across their skin,
feel our gussets stretch, our fourchettes swell
to fit their fingers in. Oh sweet delight,
you can't imagine how close we felt
such intimacy, to feel the moisture at our quirks
as they clenched and stretched 
in ecstasy or expectation.

How can you lose your hands? you ask.
We just don’t know. We’re so bereft
and soggy with our tears. 
Sometimes they'd fold their fists into our palms
and stroke our inner nap
with fingertips so teasingly 
we’d tighten with desire.

Or if too warm, they might wrap back our cuffs 
to show that pale exquisite skin inside the wrist
where a telltale pulse indents the tributary of veins.

Oh, what a loss of life. 
Yes, we have retraced our steps.
No, we can’t remember when we last saw them.

Yes, we’ll look again tomorrow.