He shook my hand with a gentle force—
like he'd be in charge if we were together—
and his sweaty palm moved me
His brown, moist skin tickled those special pressure points
and, oh, how beautiful his hand looked as I held it in mine!
I guess I should have wiped myself clean after
No one likes a sweaty palm, right?
But I couldn't
I didn't want to lose such a personal thing
Something that came from within him
So, instead, I made a fist,
held that mist inside
and prayed—
his sweat my holy water—
for more opportunities to be touched by him
and his brave wet hand.
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