He is so many things, yet it's the most ordinary little things he does day in and out that makes me love him.. A bit more everyday. It's a kind of sinking feeling, where you know you're getting closer to the bottom , except that you are not afraid of getting choked. Even if you are, you happily surrender. Like me. So Whenever we are together, side by side, talking about insignificant things.. He always plays with my hand. At first, it was odd.. But now, it has become one of his habits, tumbling my hand over and over, sometimes looking at it as if trying to decipher the indistinct creases. Bold lines are easily visible ; but he tries to discern the obscure ones, the ones nobody notices. He's the one to tell me my hands have many faint lines, everytime hoping he isn't in one of those... Somedays, he is too tired , so he just entangles his fingers with mine, and never forgets to mention how perfectly they fit. At times, he just lets my hand rest over his palm. I always wonder if these creases were nothing but just memories, etched. Some sharp while others feeble, some ending abruptly while others carrying on forever.
But no matter how many memories, ours are my favorite. And every time he holds my hand, there is a new imprint, an immanent one.