I do not like to be touched.
I loathe to be felt, like a velvet jacket in a shop.
I cannot stand being man handled, touching my waist to move past me.
But to taste your finger tips against my lips, and your hand against my heart. Was comfort like no other.
To watch your facial expressions, reacting to television stimulation. As I felt your soft curls in my hand.
I felt full. Whole almost in those moments.
Chasing highs of you.
Chasing away my lows. A race against time between us.
Then falling out of touch became a game.
And now I crave to feel. Anything. Anyone feel me.