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To the boy who brushed my hand

Written February 2015

To the boy who brushed my hand on the bus, thank you. The warmth of your skin against mine momentarily broke the numbness.


It’s scary really how easily we forget that feeling- skin on skin, warmth, affection.
As we band-aid our hearts back together to keep them beating, focusing on the very act of breathing, pushing, circulating, we forget the way our blood warms us, how our heart can skip a beat at the very thought of someone.


Frozen in anger and hurt, waiting to heal, unable to cry but all too ready to scream, I thank you for that moment that your hand brushed mine.

It was by accident, the bus was heaving and that was the only rail on which to grasp to stop ourselves from falling, but in that instant your hand caught mine and my skin remembered.
It remembered being held, touched and loved. It remembered warmth. It switched itself off autopilot and remembered the pure sensation of touch.

We moved our hands away immediately, politely, shyly smiling in silent communication, you in apology, me in gratitude.

You got off at the same stop and went to your girl, you both politely bowed and I was so thrilled and filled with hope that you would hold her hand that night, that you would both feel the warmth of each other’s skin and the connection of true embrace.

I walked on, smiling and yet with tears streaming down my face, I had remembered and now, to once more forget.

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