Light falls from above to define the angle where your shoulder meets your neck, the cool skin fresh across ten feet of stale air. If you turned, you’d see the gaze of stark wonder I lay against your back, blind eyes searching clue to your mystery.
Looking now, perhaps my answer lies in your skin, couched in the smooth exterior of your body, that layer of cells which touches—touches air, cloth, people. The possibility seems viable enough. I’ve searched the halls of psyche and returned dry, no answer apparent. Staring at you in the half-light of morning, I need search no further—the surface texture of pale skin is answer enough, speaks of life and substance beyond words, a healthy alternative to the endless love musings that invariably circle on themselves in futile spiral inward. I’m satisfied with my discovery, even relieved—answer at last, the simplest possible answer: love is where we touch, skin to skin.
You turn to face me, have sensed my gaze all along but waited it out—another gift. You find my eyes and grasp the love they speak. You smile at that, pleased, but don’t move to bridge the few yards between us. Exchanged across that gap is whole love, a thing as undeniable as the air we breathe, the sun we praise. Love without touching.
My recent solution crumbles. I’ll have to start all over again.