Back where the air’s different, where it even smells southern and the forests are filled with thick jungle trees, we must always always touch. Intertwined like the vines and the branches. Wrestle. Hug. Notice. Cover with lips all the parts that have been neglected. Like the crook of the elbow. The belly button. The place where the jawline meets the ear. Place. Place stirs the comfort, the memory, the passion. Turns him into my mischevious, adventurous sweet sweet man again. And leaving each other feels like ripping away. The way it used to feel. The way it’s supposed to feel when you’re one flesh.