On a weekday afternoon when the lull of human machines drone about me, and the rain drizzles absentmindedly against the panes, I am thinking of how the dark of your hair pours downward and thrashes silently against the milk of your back. I wonder at the days have slipping past, banana-peel-like under clumsy feet-and I grazed my lips at the first saying of your name; I think of how my mind cracked open a hairline at the neat precipice of your shoulder.

Already so much has come and gone. I have recently understood that hands are useless for holding. They keep nothing, hold nothing. Sands sift. Water drips. Blood clots reopen. Hands are useless for keeping. You get up to go and return my hand to me. You don’t need it anymore you have two of your own thank you very much.

But breath keeps. Silence keeps. Eyes keep. I wish we learned this and began using our sighs more and our hands less.

Until then, let’s put these hands to some good use. Palms upon the plateau of your back. Fingers playing hopscotch across your spine. Weathered knuckles grazing the tender under-bone of your cheek and jaw.

Time’s up. Let go of our hands. Remember to keep my breath, my sight, my every unspoken word. These are my letters to you in a world that does not allow us the act of handholding.