We are so porous now that our moods break the skin without even touching. Are you ok, I say, and she tells me not to say it, which I understand but do anyway, wanting to help. She sees me struggling like this and asks, is there anything I can do? I tell her not to worry and worry myself with her concerns. Of course, the happiness filters through too, the joy and love and revelries. This feels amazing, she says, and I don’t respond, she knows full well what happens when we’re near. We fill each other so completely.
My hands haven’t trembled in the longest time. I miss that feeling, not of settled fears and soiled familiarity but of reaching out with uncertainty, of electricity and promise and the sense of something other, ready, attention present below your prints. Moments yet unsavored, sensations to be delivered by osmosis and stored within your veins. That explosion of not knowing, Midas’ promise within your fingers, strange alchemical urges pushing adrenaline surges all throughout your body. Bloody and distinct, pulsating quivered impulses shaking you so hard that surrender sounds like bliss. I miss that feeling, of reaching out for something.