Love HANDles
I want to hold your hand, nothing more.
I want to simply be in your company.
I want to hold your hand, two pieces of this puzzle that fit comfortably.
I don’t mind your sweaty palms if you can get passed my scars because these hands held others, and that’s the truth.
But you,
Lock your fingers with mine and that bond that bind makes me thankful that I washed them.
Because they were stained, and you still held them.
One hand washes the other.
I don’t know who “they” are, but “they” say your heart is the same size of your hand, and I want to hold your hand.
Hands, two things that can destroy, but you use them in the gentlest way trying to fill up the emptiest space.
I don’t like to fall.
My hands usually cushion the blow, you know how that goes. But, just know: your hands are the hands that I chose to have and to hold. Those hands keep me on my toes because dammit they’re cold!
Cold hands mean warm heart.
“I want to hold your hand” sang the Beatles. Other people said that, and their intentions were evil. I’m not trying to deceit you; I need you to see that I’m not see-through. If I let go, I’ll always return, receipt you.
I want to hold your hand.
The same hand that guides this pen to write this poem for you, doesn’t want to be here.
I want to hold your hand.
(2013)
