the questionable establishment

2000.12.12

I measure my calm, my level of joy and peace and happiness, by touch and the idea of touch. It may not be that other people do, but I do. When my calm gets to the point that I feel myself able to touch and be touched without fear, it means love. And I'm a sucker for loving. Please don't run from my touch. It is the way I care about you. And don't think that a lack of my touch means I do not love. I might just be too shy to admit it.


Salt in the skin may sting and burn your tongue, but still indulge.

Pixies may fly and angels may cry, but still indulge.


I allow you to become my alpha, my beta, my gamma, my delta, my all and everything. I shiver for you, allow my heart to beat hummingbird-speed for you, at the thought of breaking that barrier I feel drawing near. Sometimes I wonder where that barrier is for you, if it is there for you, and whether it can or will ever be broken. Is it simply in my imagination? There are so many times I feel close to the verge of giving up desparately in the hopes of something bigger that may or may not be, something that would be and could be if only it was. The possibility is erected, pointed out, painted and mulled over; it is touched, stared at, and held a sledgehammer to. The barrier is so close that I can touch it, taste it, dream of it in dark, unforgiven sin of the self once you aren't near. I have given you my touch, but my crystal ball shattered when I dropped it like a burning factory woman. The future of our barrier remains hidden in light too blinding for my life's eye to withstand.