“Upon the palms of my hand, I have written your name.” – Isaiah 49:16
Never had he felt the warmth of her fingers before. He had anticipated it to be like the warm sun on a cold morning, something that would make him shiver and smile. He had imagined it to be like hot coffee, the softest quilt, and the rush of caffeine in his veins, and pictured it to be normal, with a shade of love. It was nothing like it.
Late at night, as they looked at each other, too tired to say anything, he touched her face. His fingers trailed on her skin, as he touched her cheeks. They were cold and he would want it no other way. He held her face and looked at her as shivers ran through him. And then she touched his face. Her fingers trailed on his skin. They were cold and he would want it no other way. Everything inside him froze, except where she held him. He felt no rush of blood, and he could feel her fingers getting colder. And he liked it. It was like walking toward the sunset.
He placed his hand on top of hers, and let the fingers intertwine. They fit like puzzle pieces. The cold was slowly ebbing away. The warmth was returning to their fingers, their cheeks were getting redder, and their eyes were locked onto each other. It was 3:04 A.M. and he remembered something. “Nothing good happens after 2 A.M.” And he knew he was screwed. And he was happy.
They say hands are like Cinderella’s shoes.
Hands are magical.
They say hands are what makes tomorrows.
With her hand in mine, I think I had more than just tomorrows.
This wasn’t normal, with a shade of love. This was love, with a shade of insanity. The sun was setting.
“People fall in love in mysterious ways. Maybe just the touch of a hand.” – Ed Sheeran
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