On Holding Hands

They were frail.

Withered skin, calloused and bruised from years of laborious work displayed decades of factory smog; memories flickered as quickly as the train she used to board every day and night.

Stronger ones, rougher by nature, lay still and untouched beneath the soil, no longer able to raise the grass or the flowers or the plants or the trees. He had stopped tending to them once the Winter grew in.

But he loved her.

Young veins grabbed at her own---three generations down---and yet his touch was the only one she felt.

Death had robbed her of a lifeline and made a mockery of her grief.

It was cold.

Rough fingers used to intertwine hers. It was warm back then.

At times, they'd grope and mark and bleed and bruise and hurt and 

Yet she loved him.

Two lovers, torn apart by the clock, clung to each other even after time was up and the last hour had struck.

And yet grasping one another's hands wasn't enough to bring him back, but you couldn't blame them.

They were frail.

..........

I haven't seen you in forever.

So when I hold your hand, don't you dare pull away because I fucking miss you, okay?

Are you ashamed of me? Do I make you uncomfortable? If so, please let me know.

I can go away if you really want me to, you just need to ask.

Goddammit, why do you pull away?

Can't you see that I need you?

..........

Hands are simply beautiful. Breathtaking, even.

Oftentimes, I find myself mesmerized by the gentle strums on a guitar, the careless flicks of a pen whilst scrawling away on paper, even the nervous ticks we all seem unaware of.

They're able to do so much; it's truly remarkable.

Hands can build, and paint, and write, and poke, and play, and hit, and grope, and scratch, and touch, and comfort, and caress, and heal, and hurt, and hold, and release, and tap, and move, and dance, and screw you over in more ways than one.

When they twirl around a tendril of hair, when they open a gift for the first time, when they pat reassuringly on the back, when they wipe away tears, when they grasp a utensil, when they flip the page of a book, when they type away at a phone, when they shake from anxiety, when they flip you off, when they clap in admiration, when they gesture as a part of everyday conversation, when they pick up a puppy, when they point to unbelievable sights, when they tie a ribbon in place, when they simply hold another hand. 

Hands are so utterly important to me. They are a reassurance that there is promise and that we can make something out of our lives, so why not make something together?

Hasta la próxima,

Much love xoxo

Maya