Hand Holding


His hands are rough against my palm as he traces the lines of his tattoo on my hand.  

He smiles self consciously as he asks "Do you understand?"

I nod my head and smile back, loving all the while,

The rough edges of his fingers dwarfing my own. 


"Your hands felt different then I imagined they would" I tell him

"Each time we touch I learn something new about what you must look like"

"Not like I really see you in my memories

My brain does not give me twenty twenty in my dreams,

But the shadowy figure next to me, 

The suggestions of shoulders,

And the unmistakable sensation of a smile in the air

Remind me that you are real, and give me an image to hold onto." 


I tell him all this and he smiles through the email thread that is far past seventy messages.

I smile back with words of thanks because again he's reminded me

That it is okay to feel pain,

That venting is not whining,

That it is all right to miss knowing what stars look like,

What people's eyes look like,

What a smile looks like;

He says it's okay.  


He says "Your hands are small actually, very cute"

And I grin like an idiot at the screen

Because this beautiful human who knows me

And isn't afraid to speak honestly

Reassures me that

Though I cannot see his face he is not another pipe dream.  


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