We have made habits out of touching too much; letting folds of skin and hair roll underneath palms. We have spent afternoons idle and lazy, making serious tasks out of laying on our backs and staring at the ceiling. When we walk down suburban streets littered with Autumn leaves, our hands nearly touch. We smile often at each other, our gazes heavy with wanting. And when you leave my whole body feels tired, wrung out and desperate to touch you more.
There have been moments with you standing in the kitchen, the summer sun touching your shoulders. I can not help but wish, with such fevour, to kiss the skin it touches there.
