✕ ▌ᴄ ʜ ɪ ᴀ ʀ ᴏ s ᴄ ᴜ ʀ ᴏ

And then he said, “i’m scared.” “Of what? Me?” I replied. He shook his head. “Of me,” he looked at me. His hands trembled as they touched my skin. “Of me hurting you.”

that girl isn’t fire, or steel, or ice; she is the warmth of morning rays, the softness of freshly-spun silk, and the slow ebb of gentle rainfall. her edges aren’t jagged and sharp like yours, but smooth and rounded; a stone unmarred by the cruelties of a world that would fashion it into a weapon, into a monster. (into you.) she is no warrior, but something far more rare. those beautiful eyes have seen the ugliest things within you, and she has never looked away. those delicate hands cradled your heart, never minding the threatening thorns it bore. she could have crushed it, could have broken it, could have held it hostage or torn it apart. instead, she brought it up to her lips and kissed, smiling with blood running down her chin: ‘if you are made of thorns my dear, then i will be your flower petals—’

I miss touching, being touched. The care; the intimacy that is carried within the smallest gestures. A hand at the small of a back, the brush of knuckles and fingers before hands interlace. Knee to knee, thigh to thigh, subtle closeness that outsiders do not notice. It’s strange how aware of your body you become when near another. Every brush, every touch, every moment it lingers.