I can never get enough of lovely words and pretty writing.
Maybe the first night we meet in a quick and firm handshake.
Or years and years later when we walk down a familiar street.
Maybe in the back of a cab in the Lower East Side.
The aisles of the old antique shops, trying to stay connected even though our path narrows.
I will hold your hand each night.
Gazing at its skin, casing your muscle and bone.
I will know the rough calluses you got from years of routine.
I will memorize the knuckles and document them in my memory.
I will hold your hand in foreign lands.
I will squeeze tightly to reassure you. Too tell you. I love you.
I will hold your hand when you meet my family.
I will loosely entangle my digits betwixt yours. Lazy hand swinging.
I will clutch your hand in the warm, windproof pockets of your winter coat.
I will hold your hand when we walk museums, or libraries.
Maybe I will tie us together with knotted fingers.
I just know, I will hold your hand.