Your hands are not soft. They graze my skin. Roughly. Making their presence known. You are not prince charming. Your hands make the difference. They hurt my fingers when you squeeze them. But somehow, even through the hurt, their roughness attracts me, pulls my fingers closer to yours. Under a bench, hidden in a little shadow, behind a bag our searching hands, rough and sensitive at the same time find each other.
You laugh. Your eyes crinkle. Deep throated, honest, warm. It wraps me in its caress. We share our laughter under the blankets. Little giggles erupting from our sneaky tickles. Jokes that make no sense and were never there now exist because we laughed. This joy I freeze in my mind. I lock it inside an ice cube and put it away from the sun and heat. I preserve it and only in silence and loneliness, I shake it like a snow globe and let the tinkle of laughter fill my ears.
Under the covers our legs intertwine. We mould. Whispers. Sweet somethings that have fragmented meanings. Noses touch. Not like new lovers that do not know the way around each others' bodies. Instead, like one that has treaded my skin a million times before, a single finger traces the arch of my back. The same rough finger giving me goosebumps. It travels down my face and tucks my hair behind my ear. And we just lie there. We look at the ceiling and then at each other and without a sound, we speak. Knowing everything and saying nothing.
Who are you? Where do I find you?
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