I want to hold your hand.
your fingers threaded in mine,
or hands cupped,
either way,
cells touching;
The valleys of my fingerprints
accenting the mountains in yours.

I want to hold your hand
in winter,
to take off your gloves,
and mine,
and warm up your thumbs
with my slender bones
under wine colored nails.

I want to hold your hand
with each digit painted
different shades of blue,
so when your hand meets
the red running down my knuckles,
we make the perfect shade
of violet.

I want to hold your hand
when we’re eighty,
skins of protruding veins,
blinking the dust
from old eyes,
laughing from tired lungs,
because we made it.