Touch (A Groovy Kind of Love)

Her fingers drag up and down my upper arm, slightly clammy and somewhat doughy and thoroughly comforting.  I don’t mind the touch, even though it doesn’t do as much for me as it does for her.

She likes to touch; a soft punch to my shoulder, a brief tap on my nose and ears, a tug on my hat or the scraggly hair sticking out from underneath.  A feather-light kiss to my cheek, as short and fluttering as the bat of a butterfly’s wing - which sounds stupid now that I write it down, but that’s what I equate it to in my mind, alright?

I get the feeling that she thinks it’s funny that I don’t react like I’m sure another person might.  I just sit there and let her do things like that because I don’t mind it - more than don’t mind, really - but if I say anything, it won’t capture how I feel properly and I’ll probably end up sounding like I’m trying to force words to describe my appreciation for everything that is her.

And that would be bad.

Because as much as I’ve been told I’m good with words (that I sound white, which grates on my nerves more than you can imagine, as I’m well and truly not white and to have eloquence and education prevalent in speech equated with being white is an enormous flaw in our slowly converging societies), I fall short when it comes to those that flow freely from the heart.  

It’s why I’m doing this - because this is the closest I’ll ever come to saying what I really want to say when I say nothing at all.

So, to her, I say thank you.

Even though you probably don’t care too much for me, now.

Even though you’ll probably never see this, anyway.

For laughter - which I have to share my thoughts about, but maybe later - and for tears, and for listening and - for loving; for wanting me to be safe and happy and healthy with jokes to tell and stories to share and a life worth living to live.

Hm.

I wonder if she still likes to touch.