I Like Holding Your Hand or Whatever

((Since this is spoken word, there's really no correct way to write this out...))

To the man on the soapbox shouting in a harsh, oddly jazzy, baritone voice “YOU ARE ALL FORGIVEN”: You don’t know me. I’m not what or who you think I am. You don’t know what socks I like (none during the summer) Or the fact it took me until I was 18 and in Japan to learn how to ride a bike, and 21 before I could whistle. You don’t know that I like holding hands, and to me it is the most intimate thing. Hands. I like holding your hand. Hands are destruction. Hands are salvation. A palm, a couple of phalanges, a voice, that’s all it takes to create a universe, to destroy a universe. The coarseness of a hand from hard work, the soft pillow-like skin of the gentle hand, the one with the gentle touch, the caring touch, the touch of “I LOVE YOU DON’T GO OKAY GO BUT ONLY BECAUSE I WANT WHAT’S BEST FOR YOU… (P.S. YOU’RE CUTE OR WHATEVER OKAY BYE)” Every time I try to talk to you I sound like a dying giraffe. Unintelligent. Boring. Possibly French and unable to comprehend English. It’d be cooler if I could speak French, then I could serenade you with words so transcendentally beautiful that you would never understand (who really understands the French?). I could be as intricate or subtle as I wanted with no fear. Maybe some fear. Life is frightening after all but less so in a romance language. I could see fit to say what was at the top of my heart, the middle, the bottom, even what my stomach had to say because I’m always more agreeable when properly fed (properly being the key word, because if I was overfed I’d be too self conscious to see you and hold your hand). To hold a hand is to contain the power that a hand holds. That is trust. That is vulnerability. So, to the man on the soapbox: What do I have to be forgiven of? Loving? I will decide when I am forgiven.