I’ve always loved how mystical holding hands feels.
Kissing can be so passionate, and hugs are so sincere, but holding hands just yields so much more. You don’t have to be right next to someone, your body doesn’t have to be pressed up against them. Holding hands is a reach for someone; a tough, a linger, a staying power unlike anything else. If you feel carefully enough, there’s a heartbeat resounding in your palms, and it echoes so magnificently through the skin and bones. Two hands to hold a heart. It’s perfect.
When he said he didn’t like holding hands, I knew that we wouldn’t last very long, and I hated myself for knowing I was right. But he was cute and obliging and he liked things about me that no one else ever noticed before. So I took a leap of faith and twisted my left hand around my right hand.
I found myself liking bizarre things about him. He only ever stood on the train, no matter how many open seats were around. He ate all of the green Skittles before any other color. When we kissed, he twirled the ends of my hair around his fingers. He spoke quietly, laughed loudly. I loved him dearly for everything he was, even if it didn’t match perfectly with everything I wanted. It was before I said “I love you” but when I knew that I truly did that I stopped believing that we were doomed. When I found out he loved me, I knew we’d be okay.
And we were. For a long time. And when it started falling apart, I swear I didn’t see it coming.
He started saying “I miss you” more often. He started looking at the floor more than he looked at me. He left my hair alone when we kissed. And we didn’t kiss a lot. I found myself wanting to hold his hand constantly. But I never did. I never tried.
Maybe I should have known, but how can anyone know something like that? Maybe I should take the blame, but he just left. He didn’t say my name, he didn’t say he was sorry. He just disappeared.
I tried to miss him less than was expected of me, but it only made me miss him more.
He’d nestled himself inside of my heart and left his fingerprints all over me.
There’s a mysticism to holding hands. And there’s a mystery to holding someone else’s heart in your own.
And I just don’t know what to do.
Created: Dec 03, 2011Document Media