I used to seek your pulse beneath my fingertips, caress your wrists and count the beats… close my eyes to hear the cascade of your heart thump in my ears as I lay on your chest. I used to wonder if I listened long enough if my pulse would match yours. A childlike wonder of the life inside you… like blowing on a dandelion in hopes of fulfilled wishes.
My hands would slide delicately up and down your arms. Cautiously. Only pausing long enough to feel your vibrations before you noticed what I was doing. I was embarrassed by what it would mean, that I was so enraptured by your touch. I measured your hands against mine, noticed how fragile they felt in your grasp. I counted the seconds you took between each inhale, let my face rise and fall with the rhythm of your breathing. Then, I traced the ink imprinted on your skin, imagined their meanings and memories. And when that was done, I would make a wish… that I could be imprinted on your heart just as easy.
I wished on your heartbeats that I could be everything you needed.
You were my dandelion.
It was my ritual. Again and again each time you held me. Each time we were close. To be embraced… it’s an intimacy many take for granted. But for someone like me, wounded and burned by touch in the past…
It was heaven.
I was thankful beyond words that your touch was soothing, calming… everything that I had ever dreamed. So, I kept closing my eyes, listening, feeling, making wishes… that our closeness would never end.
Then I’d reopen, start over… just to wish again.
Words by Shespoly