skin.

the largest organ of the body. the surface beneath which we live our internal lives, soaring and tumbling, constantly evolving, even if only a regeneration of itself, more but often less. it bears the marks of our childhood, of our adolescence, of our coming of age and getting on, getting on. it bears the burdens we have shouldered, of love lived and lost and emptied vacuous all-consuming moments of quenching a thirst we did not know we had; the life and the death we have felt, one nibble at a time, from all such experiences.

if you could reach just beneath the surface of a person, what would that soul feel like?

would it mold to your touch? would it quiver or repose in it's own sublimity? with the subtle self-possession of your fingertips, reaching beyond the known boundaries, searching for the evanescing fluidity of what is us... of what is ours, intuitively... will it relish the delight of your touch? moan with unexpected longing? or come to you as a tranquil sea, its unhurried waves lazily enjoying your shore?