I crave to  feel of  my  bones beneath my fingertips
I find myself pressing my skin to yours fascinated by the electric currents that run on contact
wire on wire
your steady arm to my goose bumped arm
your falling hips to my hallowed out hip bones
comfort
I find myself wanting to peel away my freckled skin  
to see how deep the innocence runs
to see if my bones are carved from the porcelain plates my mother dropped
the flare of my bones fascinates me
but the feel of your skin
ignites these bones and fills the cold marrow with warm milk,
letting them hibernate

there's a loneliness, a filth carved into my bones, that's hollowing the marrow, replacing it with aches for company
but also there's a longing for solitude and aloneness.
enclosed in barriers made of typed words of authors and candle light flickers
a yearning for skin that isn't my own to share a blanket of whispers and thoughts
to weave baskets out of interlocked fingers.