Your hands were thin and chronically cold. The moment you came near me, you reached for my hands to warm yours. “You balance me out, the proof’s our hands” you said, tracing my fingers. I always loved the way your fingers explored mine. This felt right, surely this is right? I thought. But it was wrong. I was wrong.
Calloused and rough, your hands showed signs of your lifestyle. You were obsessed with my skin, you claimed it was the softest in the world. “I’m so rough, you’re so soft” you said, looking at me with intent eyes. I always loved your roughness against my skin. It felt right, how could it be wrong? I thought. But it was wrong. I was wrong.
Your hands almost never grabbed mine when in public, you weren’t into PDA. Yet when we were alone you always interlocked our hands, “this is for us and us alone” you said, kissing them every night. I always loved your soft, warm kisses on my hands. They felt right, surely this is right? I thought. But it was wrong. I was wrong.
Soft and lean, your hands were twice as big as mine own. You ran your fingers up and down my face, tracing my brow, my lips, my nose. “You are so good to me” you said, piercing blue eyes studying my face. I always loved the way your gaze made me feel. We felt right, how could we be wrong? I thought. But it was wrong. I was wrong.
Your hands, big and strong, would cup mine as we’d walk side by side. Your grasp was firm, safe and warm, one of a man. “Yours are so small, so very small” you said, jokingly comparing them to fictional ones. I always loved the way you held me, the way you wrapped me. Your touch was right, we felt so right, surely we are right? I thought. But it was wrong. I was wrong.
Now here they are, my hands, warm, soft, small…
Still hoping someday they’ll stop being wrong…
and finally be right.
Created: Feb 10, 2010Document Media