Lingering in Doorways

I am dying to close my fist around this moment, to shove it in my back pocket and keep it snug. How human is it to dream of the impossible? Sometimes, to handle the enormity of my feelings, I imagine my hands doing the work: touching and teasing and taking apart when they need to. And so I open doors and slam them. I build walls to protect my hurts. I catch love before it grows and let it shudder violently in my palm. That’s always been my mistake, thinking love can be caught. And I am the fool for thinking it could be any other way, for there to be such thing as a quick end to impalpable madness. I’ve grown so much in the past six months. I’m still discovering for myself what any of this means. I’ve met people that are teaching me to feel things before snuffing them out. And my hands have other uses now, they crave friends to anchor them, they want to clap themselves in prayer and awe-struck applause. Please say you understand. Let me be a moment in your back pocket. Hold me close, closer still, and please don’t let go.