Hands and Voices

First there was him, and then there was you.

He was tall, dark, and handsome. And sad and complicated, and everything a girl looks for in a boy she wants to fix. When I saw him smile, I didn’t know if he meant it. If it was empty, or full, or neither or both – because it never reached his eyes.

My eyes saw only what he revealed, but my mind thought I saw less. I should have wanted to see more.

You were short and sweet and simple and everything a girl overlooks in a boy she needs by her side. When I saw you smile, I knew there was happiness behind it. I knew you meant it, because it reached your eyes every time.

My eyes saw only what you revealed, but my mind thought I saw more. I should have wanted to see less.

But our story truly began with hands.

First there were his hands, then yours.

His hands have been chiselled by some heavenly creature, if not God himself. His fingers – long and slender… he has piano hands – although at the time I thought it impossible for him to be able to play an instrument so calm.
I wanted his hands to crush me, to consume me in every way and wander over me and scar me and destroy everything that kept me whole.

Yours are soft and smooth and not as perfect as his, yet still perfect in their imperfection. Perfect for what I wanted them to be for me.
I wanted your hands to touch me, to caress me and hold my face and wipe my tears with your thumbs after he finally broke me. I wanted your hands to put me back together from the shattered pieces that he left behind.

And then he spoke.

And my world transformed.

His words, his voice, him. Nothing my mind could even conceive. He was incapable of breaking things, only making them whole. When he told me things of himself, I smiled, because I was wrong and I was happy that I was wrong.

How can he be the one to break me? I didn’t know.

And then you spoke.

And my world shattered.

Your words, your voice, you. An angelic hymn pulling me in, hypnotizing, until by the slip of my own tongue my intentions became known. And then began our game.
Your playful seduction tugged at my destitute reins. Every word undoing the remaining fragments of the perfection I beheld you in.

How can you be the one to fix me? I don’t think I will ever know.

Still I played along, kept my face placid and my smiles empty.
While yours were magical and dazzling.
And his were neither and both and it hurt to look sometimes.

Then words turned to daggers, and I could never tell if they were meant to draw blood or just to threaten. I thought it was all a grand game, until you pushed it too far and the blade pierced my heart.

How can you have my heart, when all you have done is cripple me? I still don’t know.

I wanted his hands to break me. But in the end it was you who undid me.

And he who put the pieces back together again.


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