It hasn’t been until a few years back that I began to notice your hands.
They are always warm, soft, and oddly wrinkled for a nineteen year old.
Claw-like and dangerous, I hold them,
trying to find the gentle beast inside you.
You raise my hands to your face and hold them there,
your face just as soft as your hands.
Your pudgy cheeks act as barriers to your brain
yet still we communicate by interactions.
You take me on more journeys than our car does.
My feet follow after you through hell and high water
as my heart thuds in my ears
just a little louder than your laughter.
Before I go, I would like to know what makes you tick-
why your hands seem more knowledgeable than any elders
and why our journeys always leave me in despair.
I don’t think I can be your traveling companion anymore.
You look at me as if you understand everything I say to you.
Maybe you do, but I cannot know for sure
for your babbles and giggles and mutterings and screeches
leave me as confounded as your inner workings do.
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