The wind screams and howls against your frigid hands,
And the sun tries its best to warm your skin,
And you turn your face to the sky but feel nothing.
Down the road is where family stands,
Judgmental eyes and tipped up chin
In scorn and distaste with no room for loving.
My hands are far too cold,
You whisper in sheepish volumes, hidden
From the eyes of those surrounding.
Perhaps I am far too bold,
For I ask in mirrors of your voice for something forbidden.
I take your hands in mine and lay ourselves, skinned and all,
Before a judgment my shoulders will shield you from.
Break the formality, burn the tradition,
Take the demands of family between my teeth and break through marrow.
First of my kind, first of your kind,
But not first alone,
I will destroy all that is expected of me,
If it is to mean I will sprint with you,
Hand in hand.
I am you,
And you are me,
And there is little left in between.