Hold On

I reach for your hand because it's the closest part of you to me.

Not even your whole hand though, which is palm-side up as usual; your preferred sleeping position looks like something out of an introductory yoga class. I wrap my four slightly crooked fingers all bone and a bit of nail around your pinkie. My thumb rests over my fingers which are over your finger, like a latch securing the hold, like a newborn clinging to whichever person it's been passed to now. Or like a leech.

You're sleeping though, so I don't know if you notice. You don't move, anyway. But you never did seem to flinch anytime I reached for you. Any definition of the verb will do here.

But here I am, still clinging on.