The art of holding hands.
I always fond of the idea of unity when people hold their hands together.
They would breath the same anxiety of their uncomfortable partner, while
excitement would play around, makes them groggy and nervous.
Yesterday, I held his hand. This guy, whom I tried so hard to love, but can't.
We were sitting next to each other. It was raining outside as we sat on a bus on our way home.
Strange. I don't feel homesick at all. It feels like the touch of our hands onto each other,
makes right everything that is not. He took my left hand, held it tight, filling the spaces..
We were listening to the same song beat. We sang along as our fingers entwined.
He uplifted it in the air when he tried to dance, and took it back close to his heart.
We talked in low voices, as he teased me and came back holding my hands tighter.
We were so close, his scent stained on my shirt, inside my palm, on my mind.
This is nice, right? Holding hands, unrequited love. I don't know which side.
I looked out the window and traced the raindrops. My vision blurred,
I saw only the reflection of us. I rubbed my thumb unto his,
softly reminded myself: When the road ends, we will too.
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