oxford, pt. 1
i remember the way your hand felt in mine—or, no, just the idea of the way your hand felt in mine, the thinness of your fingers, the way i didn’t mean to reach for you but somehow i did and somehow you interpreted the motion correctly—even though i didn’t—and the way we tumbled behind everyone else toward the staircase, confused around corners, through the door, up the stairs. the way i let my hand cling to yours until the very last minute, until you fell behind a little.
