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Wednesday, July 3, 2019

Touch.

Josh's touch, simple as a hand squeeze or complex as a massage, has a tremendous impact on me. So I'll write this to him.

Josh, your touch

  • is water running down my arms.
  • is pansies in winter.
  • reminds me of my bold childhood curiosity about bugs, frogs, and tiny blue-tail lizards.
  • is like a wrapped journal that I stealthily open at Barnes to check the quality of the paper--and I find it perfect.
  • is more addictive than Whisps, the cheese-turned-cracker I'm currently crazy about.
  • is all the blankets in the house.
  • is all the unlit candles we own--alight. 
  • is every time you make me laugh. And every time we go back and forth like a comedy duo.
  • is someone loving a movie I love.
  • is lace that doesn't itch.
  • is purple paper that can become anything.
  • keeps me alive.
  • is the moment when a tornado warning is canceled. 
  • is multiple sets of matching pajamas.
  • is the release date for a book I pre-ordered.
  • is a black moto jacket with a scatter of white stars.
  • is the cinnamon tea that lights up our cabinets with its scent.
  • calls me by my secret names, including some I don't know.
  • is the Secret Garden to my sickly Colin. 
  • is my hair turning red.
  • is a tiny light-up Christmas village.
  • is glasses without smudges--clear and sharp.
  • is the heating pad that comforts me enough, so I can fall asleep.
  • is black metal and rhinestone jewelry. 
  • is you, belonging to me.

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