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The Power of the Touch of His Hand

The power of him is transferred through me…

Driving in the car, both of our arms on the middle console sometimes he will he reach for my hand.  When he does the power of him is transferred through me with tingles on all of my nerve endings.  He says nothing when he makes this gesture,  it is as if it is part of the ritual of riding in the car together, like fastening a seat belt or plugging his phone into the charger.  I feel the heat of his skin and I am instantly aware of every part myself inside and outside of my body.

His fingers entwined in mine.  Sometimes every other finger and sometimes he grabs my whole hand in his cupped like a precious shell from the sea he doesn’t want to break.  He will squeeze my hand every now and then to let me know he is there and I realize that is apart of his ritual too.  What seems part of a ritual to him, feels new to me every time he does it.

It is my proof.

Proof he is there in the moment with me.  We could be talking, singing, or riding in silence.  Regardless of the reason for the trip.  It could be a trip to the grocery store, or to a live show.  It could be a ride to clear our heads after a rough day or to find privacy from prying eyes.  Each time he reaches for my hand carries the excitement of the first time.

I love the force that comes from his hands.  The marks and perfect handprints he leaves on my body.  Sometimes, just a touch is enough.

His hand holding mine, his fingers woven into mine, his heat mixing with mine.  How powerful this man is to make me fall in love with him over and over again, with the touch of just one hand.



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