They say Nabokov could see colour when he looked at alphabet.
But I see hands when I look at letters, I assure you he didn’t feel skin when he opened a page.
My life is so sensory, I can’t breathe without feeling how intimate it is to have a tongue in my mouth even if it is my own.
How intimate it is to have two hands that hold one another, even if they’re my own.
How intimate it is to dress and undress and stand bare, even if it is before myself.
How intimate it is to lie down on soft sheets, even if it is my bare back on my naked sheets in my empty bed.
How intimate it is to gaze into another souls eyes, even if it is the mirror.
How intimate it is to run fingers through hair, even if it is my own.
Do you see how touched I am by life, and not in the emotional sense.
I feel that the wind has a tongue and that the ground has tender hands.
It’s so heavy on me this skin like universe.
I am breathless just being myself.
What a vulnerable way to live.