A History Of The Fingers Of Lovers Entwined

Oh, the contradiction within the weather in spring. An instant connection with a stranger on the street—eyes speak a language that tongues have long forgotten, and at that moment of absolute emptiness, this means everything.

And the way he looks at her would give you hope; the way she would smile at herself and shy away would grant you life. As if you have been holding your breath underwater for way too long and you’ve finally surfaced, a mouthful of fresh air, you come to see the rebirth of humanity.

For there is nothing more miserable than being lonely in a crowd, nothing more blissful than falling in love with the stories hiding behind a stranger’s eyes. The way he presses gently on her hand and the way she messes his hair makes you wonder about the flow of emotions they have.


Like a hurricane, when everything is seemingly being sucked in and destroyed, but in fact, that’s the only way nature can talk—the only way it can bring things together, twist and blend them to create perfection.

A history of the fingers of lovers entwined: How many times have they come together? What are the reasons they always fall back in the same manner? How mechanical of the hand to naturally find its way back to the same spot, like a key to a lock.

And one must ask if they’re aware of what a stranger sees looking at them. Do they see the same stars sparkling or just a hint of light? It’s beautiful what you can find in the ruins of the soul.

So they wonder why I prefer to walk alone, and it is not because I miss you. It is not because I need you. I crave this type of silent connection, like an addiction to fulfill my blindness, the one I find when my eyes try to escape the inevitable glances of passersby, the one I see when my soul can’t hide.


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