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.]