“You want to hold my hand?” I turn my head to look – at you. I realise my fingers are resting dangerously close to yours. Our arms brush; no, it’s just fabric against fabric. A smile dances at the corner of my lips, as the one on yours. The meeting of eyes; we each let out a small muffled laugh at the synchronicity of our thoughts. Looking back to the front of the room, I start humming the Beatles song (I wanna hold your hand, I wanna hold your hand). I can feel you smiling beside me; your way of telling me you were just thinking the exact same thing. You love the Beatles, you love the oldies, old but gold ain’t that right; yes I know, I do too.

Our hands fit together nicely, strangely at first yet very rightly so. There is something about the familiarity of placement indicative of how right it feels. Fingers intertwined, hearts strummed as one. We walk down the steps along the aisle of the lecture hall. The many people around us seem to be moving quickly and slowly, sort of like a recorded tape that is alternately being accelerated and rewound and replayed in slow motion again and again. Their actions reminiscent to that of moving underwater; the sounds around us appear muted.

I joke that your hand is a lot smoother than I expected so. You quip. You claim that is an insult. We share another tiny laugh. It feels like we are in our own detached space. I rub my thumb on the edge of your hand; you give my palm a little squeeze: I am here for you. The non-verbal communication aspect of our bond always worked better (ironic for a pair fundamentally connected by the love for literature and linguistics).

You lean in and walk extremely close to me, as you always do – did. Do. I can recognise your scent, even here; it makes me want to stay around you forever; it is a comforting sense. My senses are always acute when I am around you, I want to feel every bit of feeling that I feel in every moment. Remember the time I told you about how I had trouble learning ‘how to feel’ when I first started doing literature? You told me to keep at it; never give up on something you love.

Break in reverie, life around us proceeds. We scramble to find seats. I see someone I know in the crowd; my hand subconsciously slips out of yours, I smile, wave at her, gesture that I am seating with you – going to find a seat with you, and proceed forward in your trail; I never liked her much anyway, she reminds of barbie dolls (unnaturally flawless, fake, pretends to love you/nah not really). Moving a few rows front, there are two empty seats available – ah, not good, I know the other three people in the row as well. No time. We sit.

My hand finds yours once again. The other one now; my right, your left. I have never been accustomed to being right. But I guess, with you, it is alright. You whisper to me, I heard they know about us. With my gaze fixed to the front of the hall, I do not respond. About us. I reply, slowly, but we aren’t anything, are we? I hear the beginnings of your smile once again. Of course. We aren’t. Your fingers curl comfortably around mine, and it feels like you and I are both being held safely in the small space between both our palms. I shift myself subtly towards you.

Stop worrying, you did well. Your voice, your presence; my anxiety settles. My breathing is stable. I feel your constant inhales and exhales as I rest my head against your shoulder. My eyelids are heavy and everything around me seemingly fades to grey. Thumb on back of hand, has time stopped yet? You gently tighten your grip around my hand. (Thank you for being there.) Never give up on something you love. I love you, I whisper as I drift off to sleep.

The heart wants what the heart wants.

--

[As strange as it sounds, the above comes from a very vivid dream I had. And what I found interesting was, the moment I drifted off to sleep within my dream was the moment I woke up in real life. Pretty mind-blowing stuff! Anyway, here’s my attempt at making something so transient a little more permanent.]

Your smile, and the sound of your voice/
And the way you see through me./
Got a feeling, you give me no choice/
But it means a lot to me./
So I wanna know/
What's the name of the game?

“You want to hold my hand?” I turn my head to look – at you. I realise my fingers are resting dangerously close to yours. Our arms brush; no, it’s just fabric against fabric. A smile dances at the corner of my lips, as the one on yours. The meeting of eyes; we each let out a small muffled laugh at the synchronicity of our thoughts. Looking back to the front of the room, I start humming the Beatles song (I wanna hold your hand, I wanna hold your hand). I can feel you smiling beside me; your way of telling me you were just thinking the exact same thing. You love the Beatles, you love the oldies, old but gold ain’t that right; yes I know, I do too.

Our hands fit together nicely, strangely at first yet very rightly so. There is something about the familiarity of placement indicative of how right it feels. Fingers intertwined, hearts strummed as one. We walk down the steps along the aisle of the lecture hall. The many people around us seem to be moving quickly and slowly, sort of like a recorded tape that is alternately being accelerated and rewound and replayed in slow motion again and again. Their actions reminiscent to that of moving underwater; the sounds around us appear muted.

I joke that your hand is a lot smoother than I expected so. You quip. You claim that is an insult. We share another tiny laugh. It feels like we are in our own detached space. I rub my thumb on the edge of your hand; you give my palm a little squeeze: I am here for you. The non-verbal communication aspect of our bond always worked better (ironic for a pair fundamentally connected by the love for literature and linguistics).

You lean in and walk extremely close to me, as you always do – did. Do. I can recognise your scent, even here; it makes me want to stay around you forever; it is a comforting sense. My senses are always acute when I am around you, I want to feel every bit of feeling that I feel in every moment. Remember the time I told you about how I had trouble learning ‘how to feel’ when I first started doing literature? You told me to keep at it; never give up on something you love.

Break in reverie, life around us proceeds. We scramble to find seats. I see someone I know in the crowd; my hand subconsciously slips out of yours, I smile, wave at her, gesture that I am seating with you – going to find a seat with you, and proceed forward in your trail; I never liked her much anyway, she reminds of barbie dolls (unnaturally flawless, fake, pretends to love you/nah not really). Moving a few rows front, there are two empty seats available – ah, not good, I know the other three people in the row as well. No time. We sit.

My hand finds yours once again. The other one now; my right, your left. I have never been accustomed to being right. But I guess, with you, it is alright. You whisper to me, I heard they know about us. With my gaze fixed to the front of the hall, I do not respond. About us. I reply, slowly, but we aren’t anything, are we? I hear the beginnings of your smile once again. Of course. We aren’t. Your fingers curl comfortably around mine, and it feels like you and I are both being held safely in the small space between both our palms. I shift myself subtly towards you.

Stop worrying, you did well. Your voice, your presence; my anxiety settles. My breathing is stable. I feel your constant inhales and exhales as I rest my head against your shoulder. My eyelids are heavy and everything around me seemingly fades to grey. Thumb on back of hand, has time stopped yet? You gently tighten your grip around my hand. (Thank you for being there.) Never give up on something you love. I love you, I whisper as I drift off to sleep.

The heart wants what the heart wants.

--

[As strange as it sounds, the above comes from a very vivid dream I had. And what I found interesting was, the moment I drifted off to sleep within my dream was the moment I woke up in real life. Pretty mind-blowing stuff! Anyway, here’s my attempt at making something so transient a little more permanent.]

Your smile, and the sound of your voice/
And the way you see through me./
Got a feeling, you give me no choice/
But it means a lot to me./
So I wanna know/
What's the name of the game?