So. It’s been well over a year since we, well… you know. It was brief but lovely, as always. It felt like more than what you were prepared to call it, so I made a private little label in my lonely soul.
And then you trampled on that place where the label was kept, smashed it to pieces with your ruthless pragmatic kindness. Too late I desperately pushed you away but you fought and by clinging on gauged deeper wounds. The skin you had touched suddenly felt burned from the icy cold in your soul. The gaping hole in my heart so inescapably shaped like… you. You, always and everywhere you. Do you have ANY idea how many bears one sees on a typical day? How some of my most cherished songs are now poisoned by a bittersweet cello? How shooting stars pierce my heart, making me feel like I can’t breathe?
You crashed into my life guns blazing, set on shouting down your own heartache and thereby making it mine. And so, with my battered and bruised heart, my burning skin, my soul that wanted only you, I couldn’t bear the thought of another’s touch. I would not use another to soothe the soul-wrenching ache you caused; I am a decent human being.
Yet now the burning has subsided and my heart is a scab I can hide; being a decent person does not exclude indecent thoughts. Of hands on my skin, fingers all over, under…inside me. The burn is a mere tingle now, almost electric, irresistible. Yearning to see the spark travel to another’s hands, aching for the humanity of touch. It’s as if my body demands compensation for the rule of icy reason - enjoy every inch of my skin, but you must never touch my soul.