April 03, 2005

Waking up on my twenty-fourth birthday

I have no idea why
I suddenly remembered
the first time a boy
held my hand.

It was that trip to Sweden,
on a coach
crowded with instruments
and noisy with teenaged
boys and girls,
like you and me.

I was sitting beside you
(or maybe on your lap)
and we were talking.

Out of the blue,
my left hand was meeting yours,
palm to palm;
we were measuring the
size of our hands
against each other’s -
it was wondrous how
mine looked so small
on yours!

without another word,
our fingers simultaneously
curled to clasp
each other’s hand,
and our conversation

we were contented to
sit back and enjoy
the silence that had cocooned
the two of us -
happy to let
our touch do the talking.

19th March, 3rd April 2005


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