Scintillating agony

Touching him was always so important to me. It was something I lived for. Little, nothing touches. My fingers against his shoulder. The outsides of our thighs touching as we squeezed together on the bus. I couldn’t explain it, but I needed it. Sometimes I imagined stitching all of our little touches together. How many hundreds of thousands of fingers brushing against each other does it take to make love?

Write in recollection and amazement for yourself.

You burned your name into my throat the first time our tongues touched.

It just happens to be the way that I’m made. I have to write things down to feel I fully comprehend them.

Who said poems were enough? Who said they weren’t?