Instead of Gripping My Back You Held My Hand, Thank You.

I never want anyone to touch me,
and she knew this, but she took my hand anyway.

- the crippling obligatory and crushing I must
of hugging a distant relative or shaking a stranger’s hand

sleazy squirmy slimy slithering vile back rubs in choir
their un-asking hands on my neck make me buckle -

Uncomfortable with contact, that’s it, that’s it.
And she knew this, but she took my hand anyway.

Her cool, plasmic skin is okay - better than okay -
her fingers spin songs on mine.

I look up to to form gratitude from my mouth,
but no words find me because I am lost

Her un-smoked, un-smudged, un-smogged eyes
crinkle at the the edges when they meet mine.

Her eyes are green like the trees in backwoods Minnesota
where my grandparent’s cabin doesn’t have electricity on purpose.

These trees have never tasted indulgence in the form of CO2 from a
Twenty-six horsepower engine, 1998, four door, four wheel

Four of her fingers squeeze my indexes
middle finger, thumb, middle finger, thumb performing spot treatment on my tiny hand muscles.

Her eyes have never tasted indulgence in the form of toxic gases from
hate or prejudice or prolonged unhappiness.

She tells me that she thinks I’m funny and I want to tell her
I think she’s beautiful but the song starts and we’re sitting apart and

I’ll tell her later.
I guess.