—how it would feel again to have someone touch me.

A hand dusting my neck, a thumb and forefinger pinching my earlobe, a palm

compelled to stroke the silver of skin the peeks out between my shirt and jeans,

a deep hug, no space between bodies, every muscle straining, but the breath released.

I close my eyes and I can feel it. I remember it. I imagine it now.

Other people move on. New fingers, new palms, new bodies. More touches from more

people. The supply is inexhaustible.

They don’t like to be lonely.

I don’t like to be lonely,          but that’s not want I want.

So don’t caress the birthmark and freckles along my arm, and don’t pull your hand

across my stomach and dip your fingers below the edge of my waistband, never lean

close to me and press your shoulder into mine.

If you touch even the air around me, I will disappear even more. No touching me, no

touching without rebirth.