I'm sitting on my bed, wrapped up in a red, fluffy blanket and I'm thinking about how touch confuses me
Any touch, between the shoulders of friends, a soft punch at your sibling, an arm wound tightly around you by someone who doesn't want to let go-
It's all so intimate
Yet it lacks intention, direction
I mean, is it a touch of compassion? Is it playfulness, or something with much more gravity, emotions too powerful to wear a name?
Sometimes the situation lends itself to interpretation, but most of the times it is more like the way the clouds seem to caress the moon at night
And I don't comprehend
I find myself looking out of the corners of my eyes more often
Other people never seem to react this way, but even with the simplicity of physical connection, I can't help but look for an ulterior meaning
Fearing the untamed world of touch almost as much as I crave to be a part of it
And maybe that's why I don't understand it
Maybe I'm confusing touch with my desire to feel something, anything at all
Maybe I'm confusing touch with the feel of someone noticing I'm slipping away and anchoring me to the ground
Maybe I'm thinking that every touch I gather is another rung on the ladder to climbing out of this hellish land titled depression, where the silver glimmers of light cut almost as deep as the darkness itself, and where only once a year you remember to love yourself
I know that touch can't do that, but
Somewhere between my ears, a voice tells me it can.
It tells me to hold very, very still, holding my breath until stars explode before my sight,
Until I am kneeling before the boy with endless eyes
He smiles, wrapped in the cloak of the night and reaches between my ribs to stroke away the beating of my heart
And Death reaches down to wrap me in his arms, cradling my soul into eternity...
I abruptly climb off my bed, unwinding myself from the suffocating grip of my red blanket
The touch of its fabric against my skin too much right now
Too much right now
I think I've done enough thinking for tonight.