You touched my wrist (or how it began) …

I caught it, fleeting as it was. A rare moment where you know exactly what is happening to you, and how. It was only this on that first night but I felt your hand on my wrist all the way home and I sat up and stared at the wall until the moon disappeared. It seemed funny at the time, just short of ridiculous. I was cultivating a broken heart and it wasn’t supposed to rearrange itself so quickly. It felt – distasteful – how easily I fell. Did you think about me that night too? Were you telling yourself a story about how you had touched a woman’s wrist and felt the pulse of her under your index finger? How it had been a moment and nothing more, the kind you no longer considered yours to take?

Published by Eidyia

I am only three things for sure - an Atheist, a Feminist, and a Writer - one who obsesses over the grand themes of love, memory and connection.

2 thoughts on “You touched my wrist (or how it began) …

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