Skin Hunger

ISSUE #103

Haven't felt this alien since middle school—I ask permission to go outside, walk the halls half-asleep and wonder what it could feel like to be held. Months into quarantine, I see now I'm guilty of taking touch for granted. The line between forgetting and never knowing is thin as worn chiffon.

What's it even like to be pressed into by another? To be acted on by a separate will, applied force that renders flesh real—to hold a face or finger or friend, define myself by contrast, the equal and opposite reaction of the heart. To feel that, "Oh yes, they are real too, and by that I must still be real." To be pinched and remember I'm not a dream.

The longer you go without it, the harder it is to wake up. Expectation becomes a hall of mirrors, reflections repeating and hoping for some difference. Old selves float away with slimmest proof they were ever there. The blunt force of simple touch can shatter glass, the temperature of a full embrace like the sun cutting a chilled breeze; like feeling distant thunder barely heard.

But we face drought for the safety of everyone, and I'd gladly delay embrace to spare just one more life. Instead, I'll relish the things I still feel. The cloudy fuzz of a sweater on my chest. The vigor of night's wind behind my ears. The smells of flowers unburdened by desire. The sounds of birds, the naked sheets. The songs of sweetest pining.