Holding On

Like a winter chill, that reverberates up and down my spine, I'm starting to feel the effects of the separation. It's a cold feeling. No more is the luxury of having someone to wrap your arms around, the comfort to seduce another's neck, ears, and shoulders with your lips. It's gone for now. I'm trying to convince myself I don't need intimacy or passion, I don't need moonlit eyes staring up at me... wanting. What little passion or intimacy I got before is heroin to my body. My skin is wanting... wanting to enjoy the slightest touch. The wanting creeps through the mazes of my skin. 

The hands are my weakness. The hands are my tools to which I live life and create. I do not take my hands lightly nor do I give them freely. My hands are an extension of my shyness in what is otherwise a confident frame. Each finger is a lesson learned... has touched something special or grim, has made me what I am. My hands are small and very shy. My hands could not carry the burden of a ring that was false nor could they lift a drowning heart. These hands want to hold something special, but I don't know what that is. If I'm touched on my hands I might shudder, vulnerability is rooted deep within the knuckles. If I touch you with my hands it means I trust you with all I can give. It means you've helped me heal. I'm lonely, and therefore my hands yearn to touch, but for now they only type. I need to figure things out. My hands need to hold something, for now, all I can give them is hope. Yes... I need to hold onto hope.