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Fingertips

In the end, all we really want is for someone to touch us with fingertips dripping in adoration, to look at us with eyes spilling over with lust. Maybe, if time permits, for someone to whisper fervently in our ears, thirsty with an unyielding passion. But often, in the heat of the moment, words go askew and lose their meaning. In between the heavy breaths and meaningful glances will be a space that words cannot fill. Words will always try and always fail to convey the emotions we seek to express.

If ever we are lucky enough to experience these moments, we can never revive them through words on a page and our memories hardly do them justice. It is the moment; it is the act. A moment incapable of ever being recreated once it has fizzled into a memory, and a memory incapable of ever living up to the moment in which it was composed.

These frenzied moments are fleeting. Immediately upon experiencing these coveted wisps of fervor, you will spend eternity trying to recreate them. To no avail, you will try new people, new places, and new positions hoping to feel a sliver of the emotion you once felt. But the muddled experiences only dull your senses. You become numb to the frenzy. It becomes an animalistic, dispassionate act of indifference.

Right when you feel like giving up, the wind blows his scent through your memory and you are caught up in the rapture again. You remember a moment that occurred in a distance place, maybe in a dream, but it is too far out of reach now. You realize that no one else’s fingertips can ever revive your loss of yearning because your fingertips have only, and will only, ever yearn for him.




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