Soap made of goat's milk doesn't lather

Touch

He keeps me smooth and soft and supple. When I am with him, I glow. Passing strangers sense the passion air brushed molecules that make up the body I wear for the world and they respond to a signal that isn't even for them.

His touch makes me glow, makes me so much more appealing to others.

Without him, I feel dry and desicated; shrivelled and withered from lack of touch. I'm parched and thirsty.

I want to be touched. I want to be curled up in the lee of his body, our legs tangled together, my neck on his arm, his hand on my lower breast, the top of my head snuggled under his chin...

I want to hold my hands, palm flat, up to his and marvel at the way the top of my fingers only come up to his first knuckle; the way that my thumb ring will only fit onto his little finger.

I want to wear his watch with an extra 6 cm of holes cut into it to make it hug my wrist, the owner's skin memories pressing now into mine.

I want to stroke his chest, his stomach, and lower down, feel the length of his body lying next to mine. I want to lie on top of him and  use him as my mattress, to fall asleep that way, my head on his defective heart, so that I can will it onwards.

I want to spend hours and hours making out, just letting him kiss me and kissing him back. Using our lips to talk without words, to say the things that are best left inside in order that we might hold ourselves together.

I want to make love so slowly, without speed or force or passion, but so intimately and enduringly; a connection of the mind as well as of the body. A joining that lasts for hours/

I want him to come in the door, throw me against the wall and rip all my clothes off, lift me up in the air and have me savagely and within seconds, my legs wrapped around his waist, arms around his neck, teeth buried in his shoulder.

I want all of these these things and I want them all at the one time.

But most of all I just want him to touch me again.

I don't  care how. I don't care if we never have sex again.

Just the touch of his little finger on mine would be enough.

Oh, please.

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11:13 PM, 6/10/2008 .. Posted by JessEclare

oh. my. god. i hear you sister! there's nothing like intimacy. sigh.

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9:27 AM, 7/10/2008 .. Posted by Suzy

I understand that ache. I only wish there was a reprieve for you in the future.

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9:50 AM, 7/10/2008 .. Posted by Anonymous

Why would you have left him to be alone at this point? Why would he ever want you to leave him such a condition...knowing that you'll never see each other again? Wouldn't he want his last bit of time on this eath to be spent with the one he loves?

I Know it's hard to understand but most people don't cope with death very well.

5:14 PM, 7/10/2008 .. Posted by kat

I could cope with it, being no stranger, but he's not confident of my ability to do so and he doesn't want me isolated in a strange land, without friends or family when he does die. It's his way of taking care of me, the best he can.

I know what you're trying to imply, but that's simply not the case. It's Ron's dying, not mine, and my grief and pain would add immeasurably to the burden he already carries, if he sees it at close quarters.

He already feels guilty enough letting me love him, knowing that our future would be short, but not knowing how short. He could have kept it light and inconsequential, a game of pretend with somebody who doesn't matter, but he loves me back just as much, if not not more.

If it eases his death to think of me far away in the red earth country, doing what I do, then I give that gift to him.

He could not be more loved if he were in the next room and he knows this; likewise, I know how much he loves me.

Edited by kat on 8/10/2008 at 1:26 PM