We touch so many skins.
Think about it. Think about them.
….Some haunt us so, huh?
Because while skin has no mouth…
Certain One’s can bite at the edge of your memory.
Though skin has no fingers…
The right One can can claw at the back of your mind.
Though skin has no feet…
That One, that One you just thought of. Does it not sneak in and dance until you’re heart aches from being its dance floor?
For one minute you’re lying there…
Safe and sad in your bed.
a whole body
But you can’t deny its there, at your fingertips.
Burning– but only because the distance is so cold
Burning!– only because the icy fire of memory stabs
Burning! An old, familiar flame licking your hands, your lips,
A knife sharp imagination
That rages in.
There is no One’s skin.
You’re safe and sad in your own.
I wonder who touches it now.
I wonder if it feels the same to them?
I wonder if I ever explained how you felt—
How your touch sounded on mine—
I wonder if I could ever explain it properly?
You’d miss mine, if I did.
I wonder if you think of my skin, too.
Not my face.
Not my words.
Just the Language of
The blind and deaf.
And the careful sentences I wrote in circles, without speaking, all over yours.
I wonder if
I’m the only one who remembers those conversations.
How safe and sad if I was.