I never want to become desensitized to touch. The butterflies never to stop swooping in my rib cage when his fingertips roll on my knee
or the oozing sunlight that drips down my shoulders when his hands cap them to shuffle me back from the fridge, sifting for a beer.
His hand a parenthesis on my waist; I am drinking ocean mists and morning dews. The meandering, lolling loops his fingers sketch around the tip of my elbow
I never want his hands on me to feel trite. I want them to set me on fire