My Hands

Though small and delicate, sensitive and fragile, my hands held your's and carried you. Through trials and tribulations, through pain and through happiness, through your strength and weakness. And when you were weak they provided you with strength and support. But you crushed them. You held on so tight you cut off my blood supply and drained the colour from them.
   
     You placed a ring on my finger, so beautiful and special. It left an indent, forever engraved. Even when I removed it, I felt it. Even when you made it lose it's meaning, it clung onto my hand, searching for a new one or desperately trying to bring back the old
   
     I used to hate the way you ran your fingernails underneath mine, until your mother explained the childlike connection; then I stopped asking you to stop; I stopped pulling my hand from yours, as the overwhelming feeling of endearment replaced the irritation.
   
     When you left, I started painting my nails bright colours; colours that clashed with one another; colours which alternated from nail to nail. I tattooed my index finger with a brash, bold statement - it made me feel empowered, somewhat, to do something I wanted to do despite it being impractical.
   
     I wouldn't be honest if I said I no longer missed holding your hand. Although, perhaps it's fairer to say: I miss you holding mine.