Silent with disappointment
I watch you as you write,
And hardly hear you saying why
You won’t be free – again – tonight.
I am sitting watching
Your smooth, fine well-groomed hands,
And the long and slender fingers
That tug at unkempt strands of hair
That fall down on your brow.
Allow me please to stay
For just a little longer,
For today, I know you go away.
I watch the hand that holds your pen,
That signs your name, and then
With weary gesture puts aside
Another case sheet.
You have not tried yet
To look up in my face.
I watch you trace a graph,
Fill in a date and sign.
At last you raise your eyes to mine.
A nervous hand flicks back
A straying lock of soft blond hair. Your thumbnail picks at fingers. I watch the hand that often lingers over Bodies draped with sterile covers. I watch the supple fingers
That probe for pain,
That feel, and soothe, and heal,
And tame the fears,
That coax and reassure,
And pour oil on troubled waters.
I know love courses through those fingers, A gentle, healing touch.
I know your patients love you.
So do I. Too much.
But those hands will no more soothe me, Or caress.
You fear the kind of love That would possess.
“Well…” you say expectantly.
I can’t find words for what I want to say. Perhaps no words can say it, anyway. “I’m due at Cas.,” say you. Dismissal. Then you stand
And thrust a hand
Into your pocket.
Strangely that hurts less
Than times you drop it
To your side, with fingers curled, As if preparing
To hold me at a distance.
The other hand sweeps back your hair, Then drops to rest
Upon your desk,
As if to say
That you will stay
Until I go.
You will not even walk
As far as Cas. with me.
Some have asked me why I love you. I love the tenderness you give to others, The courage to face pain,
Even the will to live,
The strength to hope again.
I have seen the gazes
Follow your blond head
About the sick bays
As you move from bed to bed,
And I know why your work
Will always come before your women. In your work your needs to love And be loved, are fulfilled.
You don’t need me. I know that.
You hang your head and shuffle. I know what’s on your mind,
And love you for it.
I know you didn’t mean to be unkind. You are thinking “Time will heal. She will forget within a month or so.” I wonder faintly if that is why
You chose to go.
“Best of luck,” I say,
And you say “Same to you,” And add “Please look me up Any time you’re passing through.” “I will,” I promise gaily,
But I realize
It is just your way of saying You don’t want to know the pain That cries inside my heart.
It is a pain you cannot heal.
I smile, and turn my back,
And leave.
Is it quite by chance I see you
Outside Cas. five minutes later
With your arm about a waist.
You must have seen me.
You withdraw your hand in haste. You need not have.
I know too well that gentle touch, The light, seductive caress of your hands That softly strum on heart-strings, The touch that guides and coaxes, That beckons and commands.
The girl you hold I think has been No stranger to your touch.
To you she means no more than I do, But she has not yet threatened
By loving you too much.
You think me gone.
You gaze once more into her face. Your warm smile lights your lips. Your hands flutter down to rest In light possession on her hips. The movement wrenches at my heart. I know it’s just a game you play, Yet I must turn away before I weep. Ah, God, who’d ever dream
That hands that heal
Could hurt so deep?