She’s always careful when she holds him. Arms before her have held him too loose or too tight, and all in the same, have let him slip through.
She’s loved him through it all. She’s patient with him, leaving him space to heal.
She tries to use every ounce of kindness and love in her with every glance and smile to remind him that she’s still here, but it’s all the same. He leaves her for another set of arms.
He never really leaves, but he’s gone. Cold. Distant.
He’s careful too. He never holds her tight anymore. He glances over his shoulder after every turn. He feels her love and turns away.
She’s left to wonder why she isn’t what he needs. Is she not warm enough? Does her heart beat too fast? Too slow? Did she love too much? Did she not love enough?
She spends endless nights pouring over lists of reasons why her arms aren’t enough for him.
Some days he’ll love her. Some days she’s enough. He allows her to hold his hands in hers and she reads him through every crack and callus.
She wonders what type of hurt he went through to form her favorite scar on his left middle knuckle.
He leans his head onto her shoulder rambling on about some parts of the world he struggles to pronounce, glancing up every so often to see if her mind has wandered somewhere else.
If only he knew her thoughts are always trained on him. Who else has held him like this? With such love and understanding.
His rich, wine stained lips bumble and hum along with the songs on the radio, but she can only think about the girls before her who have had those lips.
She turns over his palms to hold his fingers. They’ve been laced a million and one times with other fingers just like them, but everyday they feel brand new.
He’ll tighten his grip, and at first she’ll find peace, but once again, she’ll talk herself down, cursing, “These hands aren’t mine," before letting him slip through just like all the rest.