Measuring the Soul

Go on, ask me how I've been. You must be wondering, by now.

We talk and we talk, yet we do not speak a word. My brain devours every morsel of sentence that escapes your lips, the few that there are. Maybe we do not have to speak. Maybe we're better off that way, each in our own thoughts, whispering sweet nothings with naught more than the warmth of body language. I cannot read your mind, but I can certainly read your lips.

But strangely enough, especially for me, I am not bothered by our lack of words. Not half so much as I am bothered by our lack of familiarity, after all this time. We are so close, know each other so well, and yet we are missing the crucial bits of each other that matter the most. How do we fix it? We do simple things. Watch movies. Get ice cream. Walk on the beach. Tell stories. I already know your body, lovely as it is, with its curves and sighs that were made for me, but that's not enough to satiate me. I want to know every cerebral inch of you, every centimeter of soul in that beautiful mind of yours. Let me in closer; I'll certainly return the favor.

I want yearn to be under your skin.