It feels unnatural,
for a hand to be empty.
faith, aching to be scratched in our palms,
It longs,
reaches,
searches,
to be held, intertwined..

The first hand found is larger,
too wide, too heavy.
A stronger hold,
A warmer feeling,
A rush, dynamic touch,
A passionate suffocating sensation,
And an overwhelming hopelessness,
..as you know you need to let go.

The second one feels cooler..
with a careless grip.
It maybe too soft, so soft, it slips..
too loose to ever properly hold.
Old tears of faith turn into
irrational rage,
A sharp, tension in the air,
..they slowly became parallel.

When the long to be seen
Is nothing but a missed dream
a third hand appears—
A tingly encounter of fingers,
A secure and confident grip.
It comes along
An enigmatic new thrilling fear,
could this be? Would this be?
The one meant to be?

Would it find it fit?
Would mine be to firm?
Would it hold onto it?
Would it let it slip?