#with hands

Long fingers playing piano, rough and big hands rubbing on moisturizer gently, nimble yet soft touches on the face, a sweet smile you give to someone and you realize that you are genuinely happy and feel beautiful because of them, someone playfully but carefully tugging on your hair to grab your attention, fast typing of the keyboard while words tumble out of your brain, that huge spark in those eyes of yours when you understood something you've been working on, little scribbles of lyrics and poems, when you put effort into something and work hard for it, the way you pause to look at trees, and kindness and smiles and hugs and soft gentle forehead and cheek kisses.

I started making dresses but they don’t fit anyone but the mannequins.

Just a small taste and hopefully one day it's liked or reblogged and reminds me of it enough to commit/start/finish it.

The locket is from your dearest friend.

The most humble, loving friend that inspired your dream to find comfort in normalcy. To want that.

They sucked at baking bread but tried anyway.

Over and over again, learning and growing at (perhaps) a slow rate. But it was a labor of love and showed you how some things are worth the struggle. It didn't come naturally to them but they did it anyway.

And they were happy, so damn happy, to do it all over and over again. Joy found in failing and getting back to it. Scrapping, regrouping, experimenting and just trying even when it looked like they were doomed to fail.

Maybe you loved them in the simplest way possible. With your whole heart. Silly baker with a crooked smile. So lackluster and ordinary and breathtaking.

You could see a seed of greatness inside them, ready to bloom. But they saw no need for it. They didn't want to bloom into legend.

And somehow, more baffling than this unambitious want, was that they saw something in you too. Something humble and gentle. Kind like moist dirt in the spring. Snowdrops peaking out under powder. Sunshine on a worn, wooden porch stretching across the lazy barn cat on a cool summer's eve.

They looked at you like you could be anything you wanted. But that it would be infinitely more rewarding to be happy.

And you loved them all the more for it.

Their picture kept in a locket resting over your heart a reminder of how close you could be to real peace. True happiness that didn't crush you in a cold, unyielding grip. Pressure all around you, making your bones creak in protest.

You don't need greatness.

Or glory or fame or power.

You wanted to be happy and perfectly ordinary. Loving all the humble gifts the next day would bring without tears and blood as penance.

Just like them.

with hands as gentle as rain, i shall strangle him

chapter 6: in the sight of many