Hands and fingers and thumbs. Thumbs, so much feeling in a finger. So much blood, flowing, reaching, pulsating, vibrating with humanity. Trace the map of my arm. Hands, with fingers so smooth. Hold me, interlacing to infinity, I whisper in her ear. 

"Do you need your hand?"

I take it and I'm not sure why. I'm not ready for that conversation. Don't ask me why. All I know is that your hand fits perfectly in mine and I...

Get butterflies. 

Don't ask me why, I do get butterflies.

If you just leave your hand in mine, trace your palm from the tip of your fingers, down. Trace the skin on my thumb, down to my wrist; down.

Just give me time to understand, maybe I'm scared, maybe I'm terrified. 

I am terrified. 

If you give me time, your fingers and mine can talk it out, decide together why I get butterflies. 

You know why.

Don't tell me why.

Don't tell me why.