Two focused lights shine, like spotlights onto stage. I in one. She in another.
My left hand stretches out to her light, to hold her hand; small, smooth and perfect.
But I can’t quite reach, like Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel.
I’m about to fall, from my light, but I don’t care. All that matters is holding those small, beautiful fingers. They are all I can think about.
But before I do the unthinkable, another hand grabs my right hand.
It’s not small and perfect but big, callused and real.
You held me back, stopped me falling, but everyday I’m still reaching.