Hold my Hand


I like those little moments

when we’re smothered and surrounded and squeezed;

when you turn around and look back at me,

with cupcake frosting eyes and quirked lips,

with your vintage laced hands, carmel tinged hair,

and move so you can walk next to me.

Sometimes we don’t say anything

Just kind of glance at each other,

roll our eyes or laugh—Well,

usually both—

and sometimes we talk about a lot,

but the awkward silences sound

safe when I’m walking next to you.


I’m scared to speak a lot

(in class and at home and in your arms)

But you never have to hear my words

to know what I’m trying to say.

maybe it’s because you don’t believe in love anymore

than I do,

or perhaps it’s the gentle circles that twist

lazy laps around the latitude of your fingers—

But for some reason I’m not afraid

to hold your hand.


I like it when you smile

(kind of how you like to make me smile)

but I think we can both agree

that nothing is better than the strange contortions

we make

trying to fit on the couch with the dogs

(and cats…

and without spilling our homemade

mugs of overheated hot



I like the way our veins

throb out of sync, but we can still

recognize each other’s heartbeat.

I like how you let my hide behind my hair

and don’t force me to say

what we already know.

But I love that I can hold your hand

without being afraid the most.  


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