"touch to return home"
Sep. 13th, 2024 10:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seaglassgardenmy best friend is traveling this week. he visited a museum today with one of those interactive educational displays on a touch screen. i thought the sentence "touch to return home" was endearing. touch is how i return home. the difference between reading a book alone and reading a book while tuned into the headspace, paying attention to how im reading aloud the words and petting my headmate's hair, is all the difference in the world. and with this friend, too. our touch is home too. it's a way of grounding myself in the space i share with others. a good thing for someone who often feels alone
snippet from today's drafts:
“What was he like?”
V thinks.
He was a bite of fruit in a moonlit garden, the juice sticky on their fingers. He was a clever twist of convention, the striped underbelly of a rule gone unfollowed. He was a hunter of dreams more than a hunter of rock, strong with the chisel but better with silence, weaving it around them like a scarf on the morning of a hike.
“He was nice.” They clear their throat and stare into the dull face of the dish. “He liked to talk. Not to hear his own voice, but to comment on things. To observe. He was an open person. But nobody wanted to see it.”
A flash of memory springs from V’s mind, and she gives herself to it. Helix leaning against a willow tree, star butterflies feasting on the nectar-laden rain dripping from the shapely leaves. He runs his calloused hands over the bark, tapping it here and there, slowly drawing out the vein of magic within it.
It’s late, V tells him. Time for inside, bed, touch—all the good things she couldn’t have without him.
Wait, he says. This will change you. Let me change your heart a little. Please. A sea green tendril, sparkling and ethereal, emerges from a zig-zag in the bark.
snippet from today's drafts:
“What was he like?”
V thinks.
He was a bite of fruit in a moonlit garden, the juice sticky on their fingers. He was a clever twist of convention, the striped underbelly of a rule gone unfollowed. He was a hunter of dreams more than a hunter of rock, strong with the chisel but better with silence, weaving it around them like a scarf on the morning of a hike.
“He was nice.” They clear their throat and stare into the dull face of the dish. “He liked to talk. Not to hear his own voice, but to comment on things. To observe. He was an open person. But nobody wanted to see it.”
A flash of memory springs from V’s mind, and she gives herself to it. Helix leaning against a willow tree, star butterflies feasting on the nectar-laden rain dripping from the shapely leaves. He runs his calloused hands over the bark, tapping it here and there, slowly drawing out the vein of magic within it.
It’s late, V tells him. Time for inside, bed, touch—all the good things she couldn’t have without him.
Wait, he says. This will change you. Let me change your heart a little. Please. A sea green tendril, sparkling and ethereal, emerges from a zig-zag in the bark.
