Hands

It began when you first touched my hands. Gently making tiny circles at the curve where the flesh leads from the thumb to the forefinger, as you urged me to tell you a story; one I sometimes feel that I no longer have the strength to retell.

And my hands have held so many broken things before, as have yours. You know that makes them hardy, independent, but you still hold them as if they were light. You hold them as if they could break, because you know that I wasn't always this way.

And I cling onto yours because your grasp is warm, reassuring, safe. I no longer feel the battle scars on my knuckles. Your hands have a kind of magic that makes me think of the smell of rain and the faint pink hues that streak across the sky just as twilight goes to meet dusk. They make me think of the soft glow of morning sunshine that bleeds through my bedroom blinds, of the gentle breeze that presses its lips on my cheek.

They are where mine goes to rest, and I can only hope that yours finds peace in mine.