she just wanted a hand to hold

she just wanted a hand to hold. she was consumed by that wanting. she would stuff things into her mitts, anything she could find, to fill the hole of the non-holding. her hands would wrap around the neck of a beer, the sleeve of an ice cream sandwich, the skin of a dingdong's dick she didn't want to touch. she would put anything she could find in her hands and hold tight, hoping to feel the feeling she hadn't felt for what was starting to feel like far too long. she squeezed pillows and rolled joints and spread peanut butter on anything edible, even things that one perhaps should not eat. she would caress the keys of her computer hoping the world wide web would wrap around her a feeling of belonging, ushering in a long awaited end to the longing.

her hands grasped at any manner of thing-- bar stools, remote controls, doughnut holes, cigarettes, adult toys, stranger's pets. but whatever it was, the wanting remained. she just wanted a hand to hold. and then, one night, full and wasted from a day of clinging to hope, she took her right hand in her left and held her own holding. and she felt it, the feeling, desire met with the simple truth of love, never outside, but always infinitely and endlessly within. the hand she was holding belonged to someone who loved her with everything she had, and that was and always is, enough.