I Hold Your Hand

I hold your hand.

It's so warm.  Your veins stand out across the back, from all the exercise you've done.  There are calluses from gripping, climbing, pulling, clinging on to life and vibrancy in a way that so few do.  The nails are bitten.  Your fingertips have those sensitive teardrops on them, though you've numbed them through repeated exposure.  So do mine.

I'd give anything to hold your hand, but now that I finally am, I wish I couldn't.  It's hurting you.  I see your frustration, as you learn how to do simple little things, like eat, and type, and tie your shoelaces, without the use of your left hand.  I'd give it back to you if I could.  I'd give you anything if I could.  But letting go of your hand now won't give it back to you, and I've been starved of you for so long that I can't let go.

It was two years before we met that I...that I became cold.  It was an accident, a tragic accident.  You were never meant to be without me.  Your life wasn't supposed to be this hard.  We could have been great together.  We will be one day.

For now, because of that accident, I can hold your hand.  I know you know that, because when you feel my cold fingers on your warm phantom limb, you jump, sometimes, startled.  Then you smile, a hopeful smile, and I feel reassured.

One day, we'll start over together, in two new lives.  For now, I'll wait.  For now, I hold your hand.