a love letter.

I see people everywhere holding hands, like the walking dead. They are touching, and yet they are not registering it. Kinda like putting your shoes on of a morning. You’re doing it, but you’re not thinking about it. You’re just putting them on. It’s like an instinct.

These people walk together, hand in hand, as though life is so mundane that even love and passion is a chore.

For me, it’s the opposite. I am always aware that I am holding your hand. Like those first days, when we’d shyly brush hands and blush, and say, “Oh, sorry…” Then think, “Did he mean to touch my hand?” “Maybe she never meant to do that, maybe it was only an accident?” And then one day you took my hand and held it. It was as though the whole world stopped for a minute. My lungs filled with air as you slipped your fingers through mine and tenderly stroked my tendons with your shaking finger-tips. We exchanged coy glances beneath our eyelashes and smiled nervous smiles.

And it was just me and you, walking together, hand in hand.
laura. (liverpool, england)

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