Selene Graves author
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At a candlelit masquerade, we pretended to be strangers. One touch unraveled us. until we discovered we were not alone. Someone had been watching.
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I’m not afraid of your hands on my body; I’m afraid of how easily I’d give you my soul, if you asked for it the right way.
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You don’t say a word. You just touch me like I’m sacred scripture, and your fingertips are fluent in my margins.
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Sometimes, it’s not the sound, but the silence after that makes my chest tighten. Like the hush between two people who haven’t touched yet, but want to.
The Osmosis of Flesh 