Your Hand In Mine

Your hand in mine, even after all these years, it’s never meant anything less than butterflies for me. I didn’t know where we’re headed, I didn’t care. I looked over at you, you we’re gazing out on the river, excitedly pointing out at the moon’s reflection. Lazy street lamps painted the contours around your face. I remember distinctly you turning to me, your long brown hair blowing freely over your scarf in the breeze. I gave you my pea coat, the sleeves hung far below your hands. I remember that you said, “You’re coat is so big, you could fit two of me in here.” And that we had to dig through the sleeves to hold hands again. We stood there on that bridge, and looked out of the water for a long time. That’s when I knew. That’s when I knew I loved you.

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