A Brief History of Our Hands
I remember the first time I held a boy's hand.
His name was Connor.
I was 13.
He was chivalrous (in a middle school way, of course)
We were walking to gym class together in the fall and I was cold so he gave me his sweatshirt.
He was my boyfriend
He walked me to class
He told me my eyes were pretty
He said I love you (but over text wrote “luv u” or “ily”)
He kissed me for 6 seconds under a tree in Central Park
Then broke up with me a day later
(but I’m getting ahead of myself,
let’s talk about hands).
He stopped in the middle of our walk
Looked down to my hand
And quickly intertwined his fingers with mine.
I thought nothing could ever feel better
Until I met you.
Our first kiss coincided with the first time we held hands
And from then on
You reminded me of how
“that happens to no one”
It was a sign that we were more than just two bodies colliding.
It was in that moment -
Eyes closed, lips embraced,
The unconscious magnetism
Of palm kissing palm -
That you knew you loved me.
To this day
I catch myself looking down at my hands.
I count the indented wrinkles
The dryness in their crevices
The rigidly bitten nails
(which you used to kiss and tell me were beautiful)
I draw circles around the rings of my fingerprints -
I even try holding my own hand
(I can never trick myself into thinking it's yours).
Each time I’m disappointed.
For it simply looks like a hand
Yet for you,
It somehow looked like love.