Touch Not, Lest Ye Be Touched.
I typed the text message. I stared at it. I thought it. I felt it. I cried.
I didn’t hit send. But I didn’t erase it either.
I stopped. I thought, “I don’t want to reach out to him. It isn’t safe.”
He doesn’t want to be my other and I can’t be just friends.
“I just want him to know I miss him.”
Why do I want him to know? So that he will miss me? Probably.
I wonder if he does. And if he does, I wonder what it is that he misses.
My smile, my voice, my eyes, my head on his chest. I miss wrapping my arms around his waist, leaning my head back and looking up into his eyes. He would look at me and smile and stroke the sides of my face so gently that he was barely touching me. But he was really touching me so deeply that he was reaching all of me at once.
Ugh, that makes my stomach hurt because it is a cliche. Ugh, I’m a cliche.
But, how could what we had be something he could walk away from? We had it, right. We. Not just me.
Perhaps I never touched all of him like I thought I had. The way he was always touching me.
Touch not lest ye be touched.