Hands

I just wrote this two minutes ago, and haven't even reread it. It's like a fresh-baked bread from the oven, so warm, a pat of butter melts onto it. Taste it.

Let me know your thoughts--

Do you remember the first time
You held his hand?

Sweaty in your palm, you itched to wipe yours onto your jeans,
But knew it would seem awkward to do so.
Plus, then he might not take up your hand
again, twirl his fingers through yours.

Do you remember the first time you felt his skin touch yours?
Lightly, gently, embracing you, finding you?

Do you remember the first time you fought?
So fervently that you almost wished him dead?
That you wanted to push him away, scream and spit at him.
Tell him you hated him?

Do you remember how he had grabbed your wrists, while you still
Screamed your envious rant.
And he just looked into your eyes, holding your wrists tightly.
Waiting for the calm of you to be contained.

Then, when you silenced.
He moved his hands from your wrists,
And intertwined his fingers into yours,
And you leaned into him.
Breathed him.
Loved him.

And all was good again.