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chemical reactions, fiction, musings

We Don’t Touch

We don’t touch often.

It seems odd, on the surface, for two people who are so close, so very close for one to have uttered once to the other, “you saved my life” and to have meant it that we don’t touch. Often.

I don’t think I’ve ever held your hand or if you’ve held mine.

But the few times we hug, we embrace, it is with a tightness and a strength that emphasizes the fragility of the detente under which we walk day by day. The knowledge that there is, or could be, more to this, but forces beyond us prevent it. We know that we don’t know and so we must be careful not to stir something up that we cannot meet.

No, we don’t touch often because if we did we would never stop. And then where would we be? In a state of betrayal to our respective significant others; and in a state of danger, the danger of damaging a relationship that we both need so desperately like we need air to breathe and water to drink.

[Every time I see you I know that we are more than we’ve let ourselves be and I make my peace with it. I know you do too.]


About Quinn

In it but not of it. A reformed player, now watcher. Speaker of raw truths.


3 thoughts on “We Don’t Touch

  1. Truth. Art. I like this. A lot.

    Posted by lifeofawillow | 13 August 2013, 0347 EDT


  1. Pingback: Curtain Call | "Raw" She Said - 25 December 2013

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Raison d’etre

"Raw," she said. "I want something primal. I want something bare and naked. I want you to give me this life raw, unbidden, unhidden, free, fair, and true. Can you do that? Can you do that for me?"

One may only try.

August 2013
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