Poem "Tiny Hands"

I walk the edge of your tiny hands
not mother or sister
not friend or foe

an unknown
with a sharpness to my claws
that pierces your calloused skin
with such clarity,
you had to marry me.

Still I walk the edge of your tiny hands
not mother or sister
not friend or foe

but wife,
a word you cannot taste
though the smell draws your closer
to my small, milky breasts
and their roundness, so soft
that you can't comphrehend

how your skin can be my world
how your fingers reach so far

down the well deep inside me
which can never be filled..