holding hands

My arms felt longer than usual, and out of place. Like my hands were too big at the end of them. They didn’t know what to do. They were just dragging me. Just holding me down. It felt like if I let them up and do what they wanted to do, then they’d instantly feel lighter and smaller. But I knew it wasn’t a smart thing to do.

In the past my hands had been all over, all over the shop, up and down arms, on faces, in between strands of hair, on shoulders, waists, hips, and favourite of all, clasped tightly in another hand. These moments would come and go, bringing all their joy and love with them, from her, or her, or her or whoever. Hands being used and hands being used for the right reason. Doing their job. And occasionally in those years before they'd been under observation, strapped to the side of my legs because I wasn't allowed o touch or tease or taste the person in front of me, but this just ignited them for the next opportunity I had. Months spent on busses and tubes with the same girl and our hands always doing the same thing in between us. Holding.

And part of these moments, those past momeants with my hands, they are the reason I didn't move them. Why they were heavier, too big to use. Because the old question was going around and around in my head, 'Do I dare/Disturb the universe?', and I knew the answer was no, as it always has been. This was a universe not worth disturbing. Or a universe too damaged to disturb once again.

It essentially boils down to one pair of hands and two girls to place them on. And despite having two, you cannot hold two girls waists at the same time. Feel shoulders with one hand. Or touch a face and hold a hand with two girls at once. No matter how much you try, it doesn't work.