Touch Me

This is what I want:

To be laying on the bed, on my side. You come in. My eyes are closed. You bring in a lit candle, and place it on the nightstand. I smile softly. You lightly, barely touching, trace your fingertip along my arm. My skin feels electrified in that tiny space. It is as if all of my nerve endings are right there, beneath my shoulder and above my elbow. I can’t feel any other part of my body, except where your finger just barely, barely touched me. I open my eyes, just a little. You lay down next to me, cup my face in your hands. Gently trace your fingers along my cheek, down to my mouth, across my lips, down my nose, across my eyebrows. You brush the hair away from my face. You look at me, in my eyes, within me. You see me. You are with me, for a moment, for ten moments, for a hundred moments. You hold me and hug me, gently caressing my whole body with your light touches and your eyes. There needn’t be “sex.” It is this intimacy, this amazingly present and deep intimacy, that I crave. I want the space and the darkness and the light and the breath and the physical contact and loving, loving, loving touch.

Or this:

To see you sitting on the couch, or in bed, or on the floor. But to sit down next to you, lay may hand on your leg, and caress you slowly and lovingly. And for you to respond in some way, to let me know you like it, that you feel appreciated, that you know you love me. To not only feel like I am showing you affection and love, but to feel like I am an invited guest into your physical space and your sensory world.

This is what I want.

Also: I loved this article, “The Power of Touch.”

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