Beyond the wrist, palm, fingers and thumb,
in the frost, each finger turns numb,
But what is more pleasant, than holding hands?
There’s something about strolling along a path,
brushing your hand ever so slightly against another,
Lying in bed,
feeling a hand reach for yours,
Everything is silent,
the beating of your heart becomes louder,
as your fingers interlock,
The air is clement,
but the warmth of your hand touching theirs is satisfying,
you feel safe, guarded, nothing can go askew.
Such a small action, such a giant impact.
Gentle, soft, enamoring.