I’m writing in memory of your beautiful skin. I’m writing to profess my obsession, in admittance, and also for your knowledge, how your flesh makes me mad. Mad at you and those around you who get to have a glimpse, a touch―even the softest, most placid contact of the husk of your core, your bloodstreams, of your entrails.

I write for you to understand that your skin is the only skin I want to touch, to watch at night, resting. And I’m also writing for your appreciation―which I don’t think you will―that these are the things I think of when I’m with you even during the briefest moments we spend together; that there will always―for always―a feeling of admiration while you’re standing next to me, arm on my shoulders or when your hand is on my thigh.

Sense of touch is one of my weaknesses, and one could only imagine the faint in my heart everytime we brush against each other. Even the littlest and most innocent touch there is. I am guilty of being infatuated in our fondling, your caress, and your sense of being-there. And I don’t know how to make sense out of it. This is almost like a delusion that is outside of my circle, unprecedented. Your flesh and its texture. I love it. I love it so much. I love you so much.

It’s making me sick.

―a.t.