Hands

The first thing I noticed about him was how warm his hands are. Warm and gentle. He caught me staring at his hands today. He hid them, as if he was embarrassed. I wish I could have told him that his hands were all I thought about. I think I might be addicted. People look at addiction as a problem, a secret for the dark. But when it comes to him I’m not ashamed to admit that I can’t function without him. If only he knew about the shock that reverberates through my veins whenever his hand lightly touches my back, letting me know that he’s there. Oh God that’s the best feeling, knowing he’s there.

It’s hard not to lean into him when he’s standing next to me. He doesn’t seem to notice when I do. I wish he would. I wish his presence was enough. But I’m always wanting more. More touch, more quick glances, more sly smiles. I never know what he means by those smiles. They’re brief and curious and beautiful. And they drive me mad with wonder. I wonder about him a lot. I wonder what his hands have done, what they’ve created. I wonder how many hearts crumbled to pieces at those smiles. I wonder who those fingers have touched. Thinking of the girls he’s loved hurts because when he leans towards me I can’t breathe. And I can’t stop wishing those hands were on me, warming me up in that gentle way of his. Maybe I’ll spend the rest of forever wondering about him. Maybe I’ll learn to make that enough. But until then I’ll steal every glance, touch, and smile that I can. Because what’s the point in loving someone if you don’t enjoy those little things?

Advertisements