I imagine that

if I touched it

it would be softer

than the smoothest silk

or velvet

I have ever known

and if it touched

my cheek

it would be

more gentle

than a warm breeze

or the sun’s rays

caressing my cheek.

I imagine that

if I held it in my own

it would be softer

than a newborn’s foot

and sweeter than

a first kiss.

I steal covetous glances

and imagine

caresses that

will never be

and I feel the

forlorn absence of

something

I will never know.

I imagine that

if I pressed it

to my heart

you would feel

my thoughts

and laugh

or run.

my brain bounces

on

off

and contemplates

the little things

your hand

mine

I wonder if I would feel something

deep down in this cursed heart of mine

or if it would be terror and nothing else

for the thing I fear is touch.

these hands weren’t made for holding

i know it

because of the disgust in your eyes

the surprise you try to hide

the shame behind my lies

does not disguise

my hand

yours

just too close

shocking

and unnatural

I sit and wonder,

What would it be like to hold your hand?

You; me, hands clasping each other.

My lungs gasping for air as I begin to flush,

to blush,

to rush with my words.

My voice barely audible as you squeeze my hand,

skin on skin,

our fingers wrapping themselves around each other.

Maybe you’ll rub my skin with your thumb as we walk together,

while our hands intertwine.

While we swing our arms back and forth,

perhaps humming a song,

Or speaking in rhymes.

Your grip will probably be steady,

soothing as your skin brushes mine,

While mine would be quite the opposite.

Oh, how I know that holding your hand

would be the opposite of bland.

But for now,

these

are

solely

my

fantasies.

10.6.2020

I don’t have big dreams... not anymore

but I still wonder how it would be, to simply hold your hand

and rub my thumb against your skin

feeling you close

I wonder what it would be like to hold your hand,

me squeezing yours,

yours never squeezing back,

grains of dust staining my hand,

chills running through my veins

at the coldness of your hand,

imprints in my skin

from your still, flesh free bones.

I wonder what it would be like to feel the roughness of your bandaged fists bound in the cloth ripped from your clothes and peppered with the power attacking your lungs.

I wonder what it would be like to hold a grenade in your hand and feel its heat eating through fabric while its burning smog tears your eyes.

I wonder what it would be like to be dragged from the safety of your car and tazed to the ground where the broken shards of your window knicks your face under armored shoes.

I wonder what it would be like to be blamed for planted evidence, hypocritical evidence, unjust and unvalid evidence, and for freedom of speech to be met with force.

I wonder what it would be like to extend kindness and be told it can't be accepted or met with any sympathy because it violates some order from a mysterious chain of command.

I wonder what it would be like to have your protection deliberately pulled off of your face, your arms, your legs, and compromised with weapons meant to harm you.

I wonder what it would be like to be told the technology used to control you is not meant to kill you, yet see it be done twenty feet from you.

I wonder what it would be like to have your eyes and ears overwhelmed in order for handcuffs, batons, and boots to gain advantage over you.

I wonder what it would be like to hold your hand and hear the names of your community's victims chanted from memory because you could never forget everything that you were told to ignore and excuse and accept. I could wonder what it's like to do the right thing and demand what you're entitled to, or I could listen.

I could listen to the stories of these events. I could watch the recordings of it. I could, in fact, experience part of it with you. I could, in fact, do it.

I could wonder and wonder and wonder while the news is pouring in at my fingertips, while my friends invite me in their car and in their homes to join, while I am on the websites and platforms that make it easy for me to support, but I can't say that I'll never know or understand. I have, more than ever, every opportunity to find out what I've been wondering, and if I sit and stay in silence, I will never hold your hand.

You asked me, once, if I had ever seen the stars,

back when I only knew city smoke and broken glass.

But who needed stars when I had your eyes glinting from the passenger seat-

your fingertips tracing constellations across my ripped jeans?

You taught me to live in the in-betweens.

In car rides at dawn, belting out your favorite song

(but every song was your favorite, wasn’t it?)

In subway stations at dusk, screaming into the tunnels

(I’m still here... Don’t forget me.)

But how could anyone forget you?

You were the cosmos pressed into a sundress.

You had the stars in your eyes and the world at your feet.

....I should have known better.

There are no stars in the city.

this place choked the light from your soul

until there was nothing left

but an endless void.

you gave me the world.

a world I had given up on.

but when the world gave up on you

I didn’t notice.

And I wonder now

if I should have held your hand tighter

that last time.

Would it have changed anything?