A Memory.

He would place his hand just briefly, barely, briefly over mine (like a promise), putting his body slightly forward (like a shield) whenever we were about to cross a road. I would stand still and silent (like marble, or glass), hardly daring to breathe (hardly daring to be real). I always wondered if he would let his brushing fingertips slip through mine and pick my hand up.


(How fragile a memory that belongs only to me! The danger passes, we are on the other side, and you let go, as if it never was (and we never were). Nobody to check back with, nobody to witness - even my own eyes never stopped upon the small space between your body and mine where my memory lingers.)