sauntawv

[sauntawv]

if reincarnation of souls really exists, or if there is some fate out there that times our lives out, i am just thankful that my soul found you in this iteration of life and at some point of my life, or that fate made me be born shortly after you so i could meet you, so that i don’t miss you…miss your happiness, your sorrows, your humanity, your love…

i can watch and support you from afar. i can long for you.

i can love you.

[sauntawv]

There is a man whose hands I have yet to hold and long to.

To long for his touch is to free fall—to fall and feel a long, gnawing, empty pit in my stomach because I don’t know when I’ll land, if I land at all; to want a pair of hands that reach out so I stop falling into this unsettling feeling; so I can grab and feel safe; to want to never let go—not so I don’t fall again, but to never let go—because letting go begets losing him.

So, I plummet. Long.

I fall and I fall, and I keep falling.

Until I find myself nearly levitating, no longer falling, but not having landed either. I’m suspended in the air, held by a cloud of soft, milky white feathers so delicate I’m afraid it will not be able to bear the weight of all that I carry. So gentle I could fall asleep to the touch of it.

That’s what I imagine holding his hands feels like, what I imagine his hands are. Soft, weightless, mindful.

I envy the packages he handles. They’re nearly untouched despite being graced with his pretty imprints, his finger pads patiently caressing apologies to the tape for peeling it off. I envy the water bottles that he delicately removes the wrappers off of to delineate from others. He marks them as his and claims it as his, but even then, there’s no sense of ownership or impression he leaves behind. He respects even the smallest things around him—almost as if any person or thing he touches will break if he’s just a bit careless or forceful, almost as if he will break if he handles that which is not him any less—and that makes him command the utmost respect.

I see a foundation of support and care built onto those pillar-like fingers, exalted on the pedestal of his palms with the way he services his brothers in putting their accessories on, feeding them, or giving a helping hand to his staff. Empires are not built overnight, and he spends his lifetime cultivating a strong, loving, nurturing base so that his loved ones are fed, have a family and home to go to at the end of the day. Because his hands provide and embrace. His hands are homes that welcome. When he declares that he will protect each and every one of his person and that no one will set a finger on them, his hands are shields that fight to protect and defend the empire he’s built, the system of values and beliefs that he’s been built on.

He upholds good manners and courtesy because two pairs of hands have nurtured him well, alongside a history of other hands before them. When it is said that chivalry is dead, he is living proof that etiquette is not a lost art. Rather, it is manifested in the left hand atop the small of his back as he makes way for dancers or as he throws water into the crowd; it’s corporeal by the hand hovering behind his staff’s back as he softly nudges them to walk before him; or both hands clasped behind his back to show reverence to his seniors and juniors; it’s even embodied in the way his hands speak alongside his lips to soften his words that might go misunderstood. His gestures and words are gentle, inviting, and receptive. He brings centuries of etiquette and chivalry forth into the present with the mindfulness his hands carry and the unyieldingly soft power they hold. He’ll bring them forth with him into the future—I know they will not die by his hands.

It’s the same sentiment that is contained in each gift he presents to his friends: meticulously and sincerely chosen out, each carrying a touch of his consideration and deep affections for the people in his life. His thoughtfulness lives eternally in each gift he handpicks. To receive from his open palms is to receive an extension of him—a bond with him, a bridge to him, his legacy, his kindness. It’s expressed in the way he greets security staff as friends with an open palm, or envelopes people all over the world into his big hug with open arms. To receive from him is to receive him—the culmination of all the world’s blessings because he is the greatest gift. He is a gift that does not stop giving.

With how softly and warmly he feels the world, I wonder if his hands are as equally warm and comfortable. His hands grew up in warm weather, I have no doubt that he carries home on his palms and fingertips. He’s been said to withstand the cold well, but I fear the cold world doesn’t always treat him warmly. Those youthful, innocent wings have been at work since young, never really having rest with how full his hands have been—hand in all the art he’s made. Scars, injuries, and pain from having to grow up must be written and memorialized onto the lines of his palms to make him the creator and handler of his fate today, the creator he will be tomorrow. His hands must feel aged with time, but does he know that the hands of time are only sculpting the masterpiece that is him? Timeless, ageless, forever young.

This producer who uses the pads of his pink-knuckled digits to create a multitude of mind-blowing beats within a few hours and write incantations that are sung into existence; this conductor who waves his fingers into the air like they’re a baton to visualize the wonders he hears; his masterful art will live on eternally. The time and labor endeavored on his craft, memorialized into the running time of his music and performances—someone will have spent their time with them so that each nerve, each muscle that his fragile finger pads have worn out for these commemorations is not for naught. With that, he will live on eternally. His humanness will transcend its fleeting quality.

If these written words ever fall into his hands, I muse if his ears would ever blush from shyness and be as warm as his homeland and existence. Only he would know because his fingers naturally find home on his ears when he’s shy or embarrassed—a habit he picked up on from his own brothers, a mirroring of their mannerisms to show that he knows them like the back of his hand. Pale, slender fingers also play with rings that sit on his digits, because he doesn’t like wearing rings and because it’s another mannerism he picked up from his sunshine brother. Instead, silver Chrome Hearts chains, custom bracelets or gifts from friends ornament his wrists in place of metal bands constricting his restless fingers. His wrists become a canvas as it displays tokens of his people. On weightless hands, these tokens and the people they embody are not shackles that tie him down; rather, they are anchors that ground him, letting him fly freely like a kite without flying too close to the sun.

With weightless hands, that still does not mean they’re not heavy however. He carries the weight of the world like Atlas endures. He offers a leading hand in his pack because his experience enables him to maneuver different territories no matter the map, and it’s made him become the hands-on leader that he is today. It’s also compelled him to play the lone hand, feel like a lone wolf. Because he would never allow his team to become calloused the way he’s had to. Encased in the firmness that is him are soft hands that heal and preserve the softness of others. I wonder if loneliness frequents him often, making him feel empty-handed. What was once a passing, flirtatious remark asking if his hands are heavy and if they should be held—a comment so profound that made him laugh and exclaim in excitement—is an offer I hope he receives more often from those around him. Or an offer that pleads to give him a hand, like the ones his brothers extend, is one I hope he doesn’t hold back on but grabs onto just as excitedly. The hands he stacks his own on during team chants come together to remind him that there is unity and equality in being part of one team. More hands make light work, just as eight hands join to make a star that shines more brightly. I hope he never lets go of what’s within his grasp…

…the way I never want to let go of him. I only want to hold onto him as much as I can eternally strive for, because I fear letting go begets losing him—that he’ll become lost and never be found. He’s not meant to get lost or be lost. His hands have suffered too many losses. He’s not meant to be found either, because that would mean he was displaced in the first place. He’s only ever meant to be what he’s provided: at home, protected, soft, defended, cared for.

Loved.

He’s the bird in my hand that I’ll never let go of, never let fall. I can’t lose him in a sea of people when his coursing veins are the lightning in a storm that magnetizes me to him, the constellations a sailor lost at sea recognizes, and the map routes that navigate me back to him. Even with my eyes closed, I can find him like I can feel where home is on a topographic globe. He’s a lighthouse that stays and stands in the toughest storm, the brightness among darkness that I was always meant to find. He’s my haven, and I’m safe in his hands. And like the refuge that is him, he has a home here in my arms.

If he flies, I’ll share with him the wings that the world of humanity is possessed of and we fly together. If he falls, I’ll catch him. If I can’t catch him, we fall together. Hand in hand, we run together. We rest together.

There is a man who’s utterly handsome—and he’s handsome in every sense of the word: good-looking, attractive, generous and noble in character, easy to handle, deft, and skillful. His hands are ones I have yet to hold and long to, but perhaps, my longing can prolong. Because while he’s not in my hands, I’m already in his.

[sauntawv]

my sleepless angel,

how are you doing on this empty night where the sun slumbers without worry, the moon shies away, the stars sneak behind the clouds, and the humans tuck themselves in the comfort or discomfort of their space?

what’s running through that cavernous, constellation-filled mind of yours, and what ocean-diving moment is keeping you up all night? tell me, i’ll try to make time and shush away my rest so that we can find rest in each other’s presence and embrace. share with me, i want to hear the richness of your voice lathered with questions about the unknown and the ephemerality of time, the tire of your voice just wanting to be present in a different space for a few hours.

if not, we can also just listen to each other’s breathing. i’ll be reminded that you’re here with me, and i’ll pick up the faintness of your beating heart. i’ll trace the valleys and hills of your body with intimate and tender courage, and we can just simply be in the luster and swiftness of the sheets like our names.

[sauntawv]

On a night where my solitary and lonely heart is empty, I see you across the moon’s bridge. Like the meaning of your name, you shine brilliantly and splendidly—as you always do; like I was always meant to find you, the brightness of light among darkness that I am eternally drawn to.

Flowers bloom in my barren heart when I see you. You gift my heart with a bountiful bouquet of chrysanthemums, dahlias, and peonies that decorates the night sky like bursting stars.

Bang, bang, bang, chrysanthemums, chrysanthemums—my heart sings and displays. Bang, Chris sent the mums. Mine, mine. Sparks fly like comets, and time rains. It’s a gorgeous spring scene, this fireworks show that you do to my heart, this brightness and celebration that you are an incarnation of.

I bridge the moon’s path, and my eyes behold a galaxy of combusting stars, infinitely fleeting particles of light suspended into corporeal flesh that consumes me, body and soul, the closer and closer I step towards you. You’re sure you see the universe in my eyes, but I can only tell you that it’s a reflection of you.

You can have my attention eternally. You had me already. You carry more than hundreds of thousands of years of affection, aliveness, and celebration, and in each iteration, I fall for you. You always have me.