Sleeping Statue

I feel sure that these hands could carve you from clay.
Inch by inch.
Sleeping statue. Limber. Lissome.
Cold, but my hands are warm and cover you in comfort.
Notions and vagueries.
I feel sure I could.
I am sure that,
I have grown memories of you inside me.
I have two shadows now dressed in the opulence of time,
and its gilded seconds,
and silver moonlight.
I could carve you from a ritual of hands,
render you perfectly from memory,
from my dreams,
from the nights that pass us by,
casually spiriting away the time of our lives.