Touch

Your body is a map. Imprinted by experience, by life.
You have bumps, valleys, pimples, scars, hair, lines race to draw your joy, your anger, your fear…

You look at your body and see the map through the lens of imperfection. You want to fold the page in on itself. Make it smaller. Hide it away.

You retreat from touch. For fear of being unfolded. For fear of being seen. Discovered. Noticed. Found wanting.

There is a moment before skin meets.
Before finger tips press into flesh. Where heat builds and energy pulses.
A moment where questions still linger.

There is reverence in the ache of the almost.

When love runs their fingers over you, when their heat meant to soothe only deepens the ache, they don’t linger on bumps, pimples, scars, or hair.

Love indulges in the energy you share.
Succumbing to the will of the ache. To chase it. To feed it. To satisfy it.
Love finds desire in your response to their touch. In the way your body betrays you through goosebumps, shivers, tingles, and sighs.

When your spine arches like a bridge between wanting and having
When your sirens call to gods unknown and unseen
When the drum in your chest marks the slowing of breath

Your body, to them, becomes perfect under the veil of desire.