Old Things & New Beginnings

Hands

I looked at his hands

They sat on the desk

Close enough to touch.

They were nice hands

Not calloused like mine,

Not guarded like mine,

Not broken like mine.

Hands

I looked at his hands

The world slowed, my heart beat

and I imagined what would happen if my hand touched his,

if maybe, accidentally

I let it slip.

Let my pencil roll

And that would be it, I blinked

And the world was now back in full speed

His hand, I looked at his hand.

Suddenly aware of mine

Mine were fragile hands.

I looked at his hand

And now it seemed so far away.

His hand.

My pencil in hand

Motionless.

Because his hands were too far to touch

Why would I do such a thing as to touch a hand?

It was only a hand

But it was his hand.

His hand brushed mine and for a fleeting moment, I was aware of my fingertips.

But it was enough for me to realize I didn't want to be touched.

Touch.

Recoiling at the touch.

"Sorry," he said,

In the gentleness of his fingertips I felt a gentleness that I'd never felt.

Because no one ever gets this close.

Close enough to touch, never close enough to touch, no one ever gets this close.

Not meeting his eyes I replied, "it's fine."

And I looked again at his hand

So far away, it was,

So far away.