To be governed by the friction between yourself and anything else is an awesome thing.
Where a single touch is likened to a thousand soft caresses,
On the occasions where things aren't so positive, a thousand needles deeply piercing.
The desire to turn it off, to rescind it's open invitation directly to your core,
how it stays without remorse or guilt.
No room left to sway or avert,
Only vacuous emptiness separating you from everything tangible.
In a single moment you realize that all the things you've come to love and enjoy are meaningless,
Or mean something only to you,
And they're nothing by contrast to the missing puzzle piece;
The one and only thing that completes you,
The missing piece of your soul;
A legitimate connection to someone other than you.
And you realize that it's all different now; All the ways and things you think and thought Are different somehow; Indifference to the feelings of others Is at the forefront now; All the time spent helping to make other people comfortable With your enfermity now meaningless, Like a thousand lost hours of introspective chaos Bribing others to understand how; To understand the hectic, immediate, irreplaceable "Minute Rice" connection to a person At anytime Simply by Touching, Stroking, Caressing It Really is Anytime, Any Place. In a moment. A second. In the blink of an eye you've passed a thousand hours of conversation, A thousand lifetimes of poor explanations, Poor excuses, Poor seclusion From the one and possibly only thing that makes you a complete human being: Physical Contact.