Hold My Hand

All of my poetry is about depression or love. There is no middle ground.

I turn to you and smile,

then offer you my hand.

You smile back and entwine

our fingers, your palm

warm to the touch.

When you hold my hand like this,

it makes me feel as if nothing

can touch me. Like I am immune

to the troubles of the world.

It makes me feel safe. Wanted.

Loved.

What is it about your touch

that makes everything so perfect?