Like the sad montage

of a bad rom com,

I sat on the bus

looking out of the window

music in my ears,

longing for him.

We high fived,

it was platonic,

but he held my hand.

I wanted him to hold my hand.

His hands were warm

and they warmed mine,

on that frosty day.

Most days are frosty here.

When our hands parted like the red sea

(repelled apart by forces greater than me)

I could still feel him,

his touch a ghost on my hand,

a phantom heat keeping me warm.

I wanted him to hold it again.

I wanted him to hold me.