I didn't mind when you took my hand,
and we sat as silence washed over my calamitous nerves.
I remember the digital glare of the clock
as it sharply turned to 12:33,
the A.M. apparent by the dusting of starlight shimmering
through the velvet haze of late winter sky.
We didn't look at one another;
I couldn't bear the pity reserved in your gaze,
and I doubt you wanted to see the anguish in mine.
I've always struggled to hold onto my tears,
but that warm February night I sobbed shamelessly.
Nothing had hurt so deep and made me feel vacuous
as if I was simply free-floating outside of myself.
But the assurance of your hand
tangled with mine kept me centered—
its balm lathered over my soul
as if I was brushed with lavender essence.
And now, 4,588 days past, I still fall
into that soothing, tangible memory.