Safe and No Sounds

Skin.

Skin.

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.

When suddenly–

a whole body

Of skin!

Their skin!

Invisible!

Impossible!

But you can’t deny its there, at your fingertips.

Their skin!

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.

Because

.

..

…Well.

There is no One’s skin.

You’re safe and sad in your own.

Their skin.

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

Maybe

I’m the only one who remembers those conversations.

 

How safe and sad if I was.

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