It was my favorite thing to do – holding your hand. The feel of your bony fingers filling up the spaces of my splintered ones; squeezing mine hard enough that all my fragmented shards go back to being whole.
It was holding your hand that made me feel intrepid, and iridescent, and strong – the kind of strong that was bone-deep; that I could still be broken and carry the lump of a reticent universe within the palm of my hand.
And perhaps I could. Without a doubt, I could. Who says the universe can't be a pair of someone's hands – of your hands?
YOU ARE READING
Paper & Ink |#Wattys2016|
Poetry"I am the black on white; the ink on paper." A collection of my nightly thoughts and daydreams. Highest rank: #5 in Poetry. Please enjoy reading and find a friend in one of my works. :)
