Touch me

I touch things. Feel. Pet. Caress. I connect with my hands. My arms. My lips. My feet.

I’m writing this while my insoles are being massaged with knowledgeable knuckles. My calves are gripped and grabbed. Close, so close, to that behind the knee hollow that unlocks libidos, legs, and limits. A sister to that other carnal crease in the crook of the elbow that leaves me breathless. A well-positioned thumb or finger and I’ll be yours forever. Or right now. Whatever comes faster.

Touch.

I reach my arms up to skim the tips of my fingers on low hanging leaves or stretch my hands to the side to browse bristly hedges. I hug trees too. When no one’s watching. Yes, I’m one of those.

When I travel, I press my palms to the facades of old buildings, gravestones, and cobbled pavement. The history flows into my fingers and fuels me forward. I’ve touched shimmering stone temples, fortresses caked in grime, splintered wood shacks, grandly manicured manors. And listened to the distant narrative through the lines of my life that zigzag my paw.

Steamy windows are blank canvases. I drag my finger and watch the droplets run in my wake. The damp collides with my bones. I leave my prints. A trace. Remnants of me.

Have you touched the wind? I have. Or is it vice versa? The wind’s fingers separate my hair. They glide up my skirt. Skate figure eights around my thighs. It’s indecent. Like the rain. The way it slides down the sides of my face, descends my neck, and soaks my shirt. The elements touch with abandon.

And then there are people. Accidental arm brushings. Shoulder bumps. Knee knockings. The second two thumbs touch when passing a glass, a card, a coin. Unintentional touching can catch me off-guard. Like an electric shock. A lightning bolt. An ice cube down the spine. A drop of acid on the arm. It makes me pause. Consider the source. Capture the moment. Often there’s nothing accidental about it. I purposely position. I linger. Slow. Precise. Deliberate. Seduction.

Someone once told me that when you shake another’s hand a part of that person transfers to you. That that small portion contains samples of all the people he or she has touched before. We are all made up of other people’s energies. We’ve touched hundreds of souls. We contain thousands of stories.

Touch is powerful. And the anticipation of touch is potent.

Pedicure complete. More touching, please.

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