I found myself seated in a concert hall, where the dirty white walls were stale and the dull wooden armchairs were on the verge of falling apart. People sat at a distance from one another. Men had dark velvety coats over their open-collared shirts, while women had corsets under their cream-colored blouses. All of them were waiting for the performance to begin.
Suddenly, you emerged from the door behind me and found your seat next to mine. You were wearing a white polo shirt and had a bright-colored slacks that I never knew you own. There were no words spoken between us. Only the chatter of a group of audience flocking the other side of the hall filled the gap that had become our space.
While my eyes were fixed at the empty stage, I felt your hand slipping between our chairs where mine had already laid claim. Brushing my fingers, the skin to skin contact recalled of an old, old spark remembered from that one early morning my palm first felt yours. Like a nearly forgotten memory dwelling on subconscious thoughts, my hand can still feel the spaces between your fingers.
And like a matchstick igniting a fire, every stroke awakens subdued emotions. The skin contact could be brushed off, but when the familiar attachment tells of an unbroken connection; the fingers will instinctively find their places between the palm of your hands. The swaying continues, until your index finger curls itself against mine. The middle fingers follow and so are the other digits, until the thumbs - the unopposable thumbs seal the union in this waltz between our hands.
I never saw your eyes looking at me, but every time your hand squeezed mine, your assurances tell that no matter what places I ran myself into, you will always remain the keeper who will always show up - even in my sleep - just to tell me that everything will be fine.
Suddenly, you emerged from the door behind me and found your seat next to mine. You were wearing a white polo shirt and had a bright-colored slacks that I never knew you own. There were no words spoken between us. Only the chatter of a group of audience flocking the other side of the hall filled the gap that had become our space.
While my eyes were fixed at the empty stage, I felt your hand slipping between our chairs where mine had already laid claim. Brushing my fingers, the skin to skin contact recalled of an old, old spark remembered from that one early morning my palm first felt yours. Like a nearly forgotten memory dwelling on subconscious thoughts, my hand can still feel the spaces between your fingers.
And like a matchstick igniting a fire, every stroke awakens subdued emotions. The skin contact could be brushed off, but when the familiar attachment tells of an unbroken connection; the fingers will instinctively find their places between the palm of your hands. The swaying continues, until your index finger curls itself against mine. The middle fingers follow and so are the other digits, until the thumbs - the unopposable thumbs seal the union in this waltz between our hands.
I never saw your eyes looking at me, but every time your hand squeezed mine, your assurances tell that no matter what places I ran myself into, you will always remain the keeper who will always show up - even in my sleep - just to tell me that everything will be fine.
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