By Derek Frazier
The first time I held her
in my arms, I knew exactly
where I wanted to be.
The feeling of her erratic
heartbeat, of her hands tucked
against my stomach
added to my thoughts of:
“She is here.”
“This is not a dream.”
I remember pressing her
against my chest while she sobbed
into my t-shirt, crying because
she felt like the world
was too much for her.
I remember her arms around my neck
when all I wanted to do was scream
and break the world apart.
I could feel her pull me closer
as my anger began to blossom.
The in-sync tempo of our heartbeats
reminded me that the world
can be just as beautiful
as it is cruel and as long as she
was a part of it, the world
would stay beautiful.
Sometimes holding her
is better than kissing her.
It doesn’t matter if she’s cold,
warm, soaking wet
or barely breathing.
The feeling of her
in my arms is a luxury
I’m glad I can afford.
The first time I held her in my arms
I knew that I was meant to be there.
It was like the final piece of a puzzle
clicking into place. An open wound
in my heart was stitched by
her promise of “I’m never going to want
anyone as much as I want you.”
Holding her is electric,
Whether it is the actual static from her
fingertips or the shivers down my spine
when she pulls me close.
Holding her is addictive,
each time she pulls away I want
to reset the clock and feel the rise
and fall of her breathing all over again.
Holding her is beautiful.
Because it doesn’t matter if it’s
the fourth time or the seventy fifth,
they always feel like the first one.
Holding her is knowing where I belong.