One hundred seventy eight square centimetres of contact from shoulder to shin. Palm to palm, forty six when pressed flush. A rush of blood in a minute round trip, tip to tip, past the heart. Two spoons, one big, one little, hard held in tapered flesh. The breaths are a current across neck and shoulder atomic flecks that rise and blend with periodic heat, see oh two, particles mixed and settling into concentration. Presupposed adipose tissue with no limp lipids is crackling with kinetics, so rate of force is of course glorious and love is the result-cum-catalyst.
I feel her hand on my shoulder, incalculable aeons of stardust settling. You should be working, a whisper. ‘I was daydreaming about you,’ I say. Only the day? A solar echo. That seems restrictive. Her laughter spools out, universally intertwining light and sound, gravitational waves and electromagnetism. Every move she makes causes an affect. ‘I wish you were here,’ I say, finding myself laughing. It took so long to parse, with nothing but theory until I’d felt the physics. I reach through space to take our hand and her voice is mine, ‘Even when I’m not there—’ I’m here.