The Shelter of Touch

Many of my wounds have healed, and I've forgotten even the sharp edge of that pain—not a trace remains—yet still, people insist on reminding me of them.

Some people seem to enjoy turning an innocent into a criminal.
Still, I made a vow: I would never again let anyone's words stick to my skin.
I promised myself that whatever the cost, I would keep myself whole, that by whatever means necessary, I would bring myself the happiness that was always mine by right. I know I can do it.

Nothing feels good anymore. I want to go to you, wrap myself around your chest and stay there. My body is desperately hungry for your touch. There are moments—certain moments that come—when it feels as though you alone are all I need in this world, nothing else. You are the remedy for all that ails me.

If I ever fell seriously ill, you would sit beside me holding my hand for hours, and I would heal quickly. I believe it: with you here, I would have everything this world has to offer.

Right now, in this very moment, I want to gently press my lips to the corner of yours. I want to lose myself in the warmth of your chest, in the scent of your skin, and disappear there completely.