I lace my fingers together, trying to imagine, that instead of my own hand, I'm holding yours. It would all work out if my hands weren't so small and bony, and if I couldn't feel my right hand in my left, and my left hand in my right. The awareness is jarring. It is in moments like these that I yearn for only for your company. Just your company. Not your lips, or your hands on my back, pressing me to you. Those things are nice, great, even, but not too appropriate for tender moments like these.