veboo:

what is the part of you that breaks the silky mile between skin and skin, the precious, forgotten mile where communication transpires, the space that holds human and human apart but together. 

what part is it that curdles the sanctity of the non-touch? the untouched become the touched, then the violated and the broken, and then only, and only sometimes and so rarely: the soothed. 

how dare my skin get the right to break the outside of your skin? how do i decide the circumstance without not the absolute intimate knowledge of what is inside you, not knowing the breaks and the troughs and the ridges that make up the very geography of your mind and body and perhaps even soul? how presumptuous how arrogant is the proffered handshake? you should hide your faces in shame for the breath that you emit, the vibrations of your throat. 

and how do i stand for it, this obscene bulge of your existence? we should be so much happier were we each in our own planets, untouched and untouchable in perpetuum, with maybe a phone on silent for emergencies and perhaps the occasional, mutual invite that is formed of air and the purity of 100% understanding that allows us to meet, but only for a sunny afternoon in may and only for an hour, and in the rightest of psychologies, after which we take back to our planets the very hint of ourselves, including perhaps the memory of the scent of our particular planets, leaving behind only the metaphorical clarity of nonexistence unobscured by those cumbersome heart-formed feelings or emotions. 

this