The power of touch

Your hand held on to the bar in the train. I rested my chin on it. Just one small, strategically planned move to get you to touch my hair and to spark that small amount of love for me in you. And you did, of course, touch my hair. I could see the effect it had on you in your eyes.

We flirted as if we were slowly dancing with each other. A gentle touch here, a tender look there. This continued through out the night till there was no where left to go but into each other's arms. I pushed you up against the wall and kissed you. I tasted you and the passion I was calling up from deep inside of you. We stood there in a haze of mixed breath and glossy eyes.

Alone at last I opened myself up to you. I showed you my flaws and my most vulnerable of states. You held me and I let you touch me, where no one else is allowed to. I felt comfortable in doing so.

I wanted to trace the outline of your face and body. I wanted to memorize you like a map, so I could forever recall every inch of you, whenever my mind felt the need to do so. Instead, I let you just hold me and comfort me. I felt warm and safe in your arms. And so I slept.