You know those wintry mornings when it’s too cold to even poke a toe from your bundle of duvet and the hardest thing to do is convince yourself to get up? And you struggle to keep as much of your body under the steaming shower as possible, lest the air bites you and goosebumps shudder up your skin?
It’s that sort of morning.
The mirror is freezing so you lean in and blow your warmth. Breathe out and you can see the steam as it lands on the mirror’s surface. The mist has clouded your reflection so you reach out and rub a space clear.
A face stares back. You lean in so close that your eyes have to flick from side to side, pupil to pupil. A rhythm begins to form between you. Your breathe has cycled back round and water is rising out of your body to land on the mirror, misting it up again. So you wipe it away, and take another look, then breathe out. Mist up, wipe away, and breathe again.
All I see is touch. And I feel touch and move touched and I taste touch. I desire touch, I turn for touch and I look to it and I look for it. I know touch and I am known through it.
It’s all about tactility, above all sensory importance. You have to tumble to be met by skin, a hand that will travel along your limb to rest its weight.
Pull and swing and rub, caress and stroke. Shudder, tumble, hold, enclose. Wrap and press. Balance me in your body’s bed. Directions change but your skin is always there.
Jump. Really jump, and see how I catch you.