Touch, Reality, and Longing

Touch—

A fragile bridge between worlds, between skin and soul, between what is real and what only lingers in the ache of absence.

Fingertips trace the shape of existence, pressing into flesh as if proximity could dissolve the distance as if hands alone could confirm that we are here, that we are not just ghosts passing through each other’s gravity.

But what is real? Is it the warmth of a palm against mine or the echo it leaves when it’s gone? Is it the weight of a body or the unbearable lightness of knowing that nothing can ever be held forever?

Longing –

It is the language of those who remember a love not yet found, a touch that exists beyond time, a presence that whispers: I am here, I have always been here.

And so we reach. We reach through skin, through sound, through memory. Through the quiet spaces where fingertips once rested, where absence is its own kind of presence.

We need something more. Not just touch. Not just flesh. Not just the fleeting press of warmth against a world that always moves too fast.

We need the kind of touch that makes us real. That convinces us we are here. That, for a moment, quiets the longing and lets us rest inside the infinite.

Touch me. Not just with hands. Touch me with knowing. With presence. With something that lingers long after the skin forgets.

Touch me, and I will believe that I exist.