Of Hands and Hearts

Her hands had often clutched his favorite plaid shirt, the one he should have thrown away months ago. Between the fingers and against the palms, the fabric folded against her skin as his body came closer. Her fingers remember the cotton but not as favorably as they remembered the skin. They ran across it, gliding along over hairs thick and thin, skin soft and rough, and every freckle, blemish, and bruise in between. The stains of the skin were the words of his story, the wounds of his history. Those same fingers had brushed the dirt from his hair and taken rests on his shoulders. Catalyzing interaction and deepening communication, they were the most intimate creatures between them. Every electrifying touch was the creator of moments that could never be lost.

Within the crowd she was a mannequin. Within his eyes she was a woman of subtle, effortless beauty. When time was younger, he was looking when she wasn't. Seeing what she didn't see and couldn't accept. His hands too had had their journeys. Placing stray hairs back in place, caressing her back, and meeting with the other hands. Simplistic as the everyday task but severely more vital. Soon his hands began inviting the other hands more often. A short time after that, the lips were invited into the affairs as well. Finally, the rest of the body heeded to the call.

This gentle affection was shared sparingly. Dedicating the entirety of the body and mind to romance would only mean distress and disaster. No rings bound them, nor did any of the usual titles. The labels were nothing but distracting accessories. She did not want to be crammed into categories. He did not want a superficial interference. They only wanted their natural bond and the human connection that allowed them to love one another as the dearest of friends.

They were the imperfect loving perfectly in their own way. She was the coarse and he was the reckless, but somehow they could become both sophisticated citizens and mischievous marauders at the same time. Resistance to falling for one end of two extremes became their strength.

Through even the cloudiest of glass their spirits could shine. Being free of minds that dwelled on the superfluous would be one of their greatest blessings besides each other. But when their hearts were struck, like a hammer on a bell, they would be shaken but not collapsed.

Loving blindly brings eyes ignorance to the damage inflicted. Loving selfishly is the imminent destruction of the involved. Loving purely brings the gift of compassion along with limitless others.

The frame cannot fit every picture in life so one must make their own.

So she will stay with his shirts wrinkling under her touch and her smile enchanting his days. He will play the guitar that preludes their kisses and be the shoulder that dampens under her tears. Days of adoration or opposition, the most loving of friends and the friendliest of lovers will stay true. The nights of revelations and the days of passing summers continue, blossoming at every beautiful moment. The friends whose hands never intertwine can feel their connection as much as those whose hands do. And as hands do they will orchestrate these bonds and work with their corporeal partners. Feeling, from the hairs on his face to the curve of her neck, the ones we hold dear and the sparks that ignite the flames.