His hands, they hold on tight to mine, when he’s leading me around,

They lift me off the transit, and put me gently back on the ground.

His hands, they cook my breakfast at the start of every day,

They choose my outfits carefully, and he has great taste, they say.

His hands, they open doors for me when we go out somewhere,

Sometimes they even help me do my make up and straighten my hair.

His hands, they rock me to sleep when I wake up drenched in sweat and tears,

They hold me close while he kisses me and takes away my fears.

His hands, they are my guiding light, in a world so dull and dark,

His fingers hold the needle and thread that stitch my broken heart.

His hands, they never falter, so full of warmth and love,

In his hands, I find my purpose, a blessing from above.

His hands, the architects, rebuilding me when I fall apart,

In his arms, I find my sight, he holds the compass of my heart.

His hands, the healers' touch, in a world that's scarred by pain,

With him, I soar beyond my bounds, he's the wings I've finally gained.