What first captured me

What first captured me,
what made my heart yours,
was not your eyes,
fixed as they were on your work,

nor was it your mouth,
that mouth that has kissed
and sucked and melted me,
but was then set firm,
in creative concentration,

nor was it your body,
shrouded in your drab smock,
the now familiar delights
of soft, caressable curves
belied as you plied your craft;

no, what made my heart
and my mind and body yours,
before you ever touched me,
was your hands, your potter's hands,

moulding the clay with fluid
movements of strong yet
delicately formed fingers,
fingers that so often since then
have set my core ablaze;

yes, yes, my love,
at that first sight of your hands
I felt them softly yet firmly
moulding my longing breasts
as they moulded the lifeless clay;

and even before you paused
and raised your head
and your gaze met mine,
yes, my love, I was yours.