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.