tingle, touch

My skin no longer itches. It was never quite electricity but a pull, a yearn. Just like that: a y-earrrrrrrrrr-n. Pull and stretch it out along your tongue until it goes no further. Feel that softening, delicate and precise, as you close your eyes. A journey that starts at the thought and travels all the way down to tips of the touch. Pores dilating, hair rising, heart grasping on for dear life. And the bubbles, the not-quite butterflies but pockets of light and life and energy, rippling through your chest and down every limb. We meet, and it bursts wide open.

My skin no longer itches for you. No more pulse, throb and pause, no rhythm or groove. Together, we are silent. We are still.


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