Footnotes

whenever you hold my hand

We are a million fingers intertwined. A hundred nights not wanting to say goodbye.*
I've always wanted to understand the complex act of holding hands. With my previous lovers, it never truly mattered. They didn't matter to me, and I was just a piece of meat to them. So why would I bother on such intimate act? There was one person that held my hand before, and it was so brief, so short lived that I thought that the deity up there worked their magic to cease any kind of physical contact. The intimate of holding hands went from being weird, to something of rare existence in my life. I never had that. I never wanted it. You held my hand for the first time to lead me up to your body. To press your bones, your muscles, your veins and your heart against my own. And I never thought I could be addicted something other than the occasional cocaine I used to snort on the streets. Yet here you exist. Becoming the healthiest, most addictive drug I've encountered. It came out naturally for you. We were going out to a bar, for our first date, and you grabbed my hand absentmindedly. For some reason, I found it odd, but the comfort that brought to me was shocking. I never once had someone to ground me to Earth, yet here you are, doing so while you smile sarcastically at the cashier that was checking me out. Our hands, the same ones capable of ending lives and holding metal also share each other's hearts as if they were fragile glass. I don't ever want to meet the day where I reach for your hand, and it's not there. For that's the day I'll float away into another dimension, to follow you wherever you go.

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A/N: *Adapted line from Ashley Wylde's Just a Story spoken poem.