Touching you is new.
Touching you is like sticking my tongue in a plug socket just to feel the rush of static on my breath.
Touching you is like colliding against the pavement at 3am in the morning, when I’m off my tits on booze but having a bloody great time anyway.
Touching you is like being soaked in baby oil
And our movements are fluid as we ascend the waterfall of our greatest dreams.
Touching you is having my body bleed into the sheets as you push me under
Feeling enveloped as if 20 puppies were suffocating me through their own formidable cuteness.
Touching you is sensual, even when it’s not supposed to be.
Hugging you is new.
Hugging you is like falling into the sand only to emerge with seaweed lining my eyes.
Hugging you is like breathing again after having stood fear stricken waiting until that spider I’ve been staring at for over half an hour has finally waltzed away, back to the depths of hell.
Kissing you is like blowing out birthday candles in July.
Kissing you is like opening a brand new book and inhaling like it’s my own brand of cocaine.
Backtrack, kissing you, kissing me, you’re my personal brand of heroin and we’re making a transfusion of our own DNA.
Loving you is like waiting for that voluptuous baked potato to finish roasting in the oven, lips coveting fragile pleasures to wait.
But when I can’t kiss you, there’s a paper doll masquerading in my way.
When I can’t hug you I am a loose wire touched by wet hands, feeling abused by the angry voices cursing my name.
When I can’t touch you I am sticking my tongue into plug sockets, waiting, but getting struck.
Loving you is like watching my mother’s dog being driven away and never knowing where he spent his last days. It is as hard as my head on the pavement when my drunken thoughts have sent you off and I can smell Subway mixed with sodden dismay.
But loving you is like stepping into a lecture hall naked and laughing because to hell with social norms.
Loving you is caring the way I cry when a seagull has fucked off with my chips.
Loving you is new.