A tight squeeze,
reassuring me that he is still there,
and everything will be okey.
Looking at the hands,
interlocked.
Hands that will wither,
and grow old,
together.
A slap on the back,
slightly harder than intended,
letting me know it was all in good fun.
Reassuring me that this friendship is real,
and valued.
A little hand in mine,
holding tightly,
as we weave through people.
I am telling him that he is safe,
with me.
Rough hands help me off the ground,
like they have numerous times before,
they are always there for me,
catching me whenever I fall.
Hand tell stories words can not,
they convey emotions that are ineffable.
Where words fail,
hands sing.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 7:39 PM UTC
A tight squeeze,
reassuring me that he is still there,
and everything will be okey.
Looking at the hands,
interlocked.
Hands that will wither,
and grow old,
together.
A slap on the back,
slightly harder than intended,
letting me know it was all in good fun.
Reassuring me that this friendship is real,
and valued.
A little hand in mine,
holding tightly,
as we weave through people.
I am telling him that he is safe,
with me.
Rough hands help me off the ground,
like they have numerous times before,
they are always there for me,
catching me whenever I fall.
Hand tell stories words can not,
they convey emotions that are ineffable.
Where words fail,
hands sing.
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