my hands would like to thank your hands
for the time we were drunk out of our minds
but your hands knew enough
to hold, not grab
to hold, not push
to hold,
and hold on.

my hands would like to thank your hands
for being constants, not variables.
for having a thermostat so perfect,
holding hands is like entering
a fire-warmed cabin
after a snowstorm -
and you’re the only light around for miles.

but most importantly,
my hands
would like to thank your hands
for keeping other things from my hands;
things that shouldn’t be found in hands,
like the last cigarette
or a sharp pointy object -

and the last time
it was desperation that
got the better of me;

and not your hands.

for the fact that
counting stars seem to be a pretty lonely thing to do.

They wrote

girl

in the centre of the page.

Word connotations tranfusing into veins of ink.

Pretty synonyms { eyelashes, flowers, cherries, collarbones} lilting with virtue.
A marriage between dainty and fragility.
A wink of buttery pastries & flushed cheeks.

Why the hell did it take so long to put
strong
brilliant { sun & stars }

w-o-m-a-n
{equals}
?