There is genuinely nothing more perfect in this life than loving physical contact, no language more pure, more sacred than gentle touch.
To most, it is indescribable, even to me, this task, despite all my former experience, is nigh impossible to put into words how pulchritudinous this concept is.
There is something, deep, incredibly deep, stronger than perhaps even most can conceive. When it comes to touch, we spend much of our lives without that form of physical contact, sure, the occasional handshake, high five, or even a hug, but none of those rarely carry more than a fleeting message; they're expressions, not a testament.
But, the moments where it happens are perhaps the closest we will get to heaven in our mortal living lives, the feeling of contact is sealing, the slight pressure and warmth of skin upon yours, the weight of another human being's body against you, their existence is yours in this moment, nothing else in the world matters, all your senses begin to lose their range, your mind instinctively desires to focus on it, savour it. Nothing can subdue this feeling, and everything that happens around it only enhances the moment: the rustle of clothes, the subtle sensation of a chest falling and rising, the slight exhale or awkward sound emanating from the mouth, the shuffle of figures, melding upon each other in a way that no other species can recreate.
People speak of art as if it doesn't exist within ourselves, as if we, as humans, are not the masterpiece, not the good and bad, but these reflections we create upon canvas.
Human Art is love. The canvas is the form of another, the brush your ligaments, you paint with all your might, all your tenderness, and what comes out, with every spot, every imperfection, every detail and line, is far more magnificent than any sculpture of marble, or painting of a mural could ever hope to achieve.
It is so, so important to us that we crave it throughout our lives. Children need to be held, teenagers need to be hugged, adults need to be cuddled, and those of old must be embraced; those who are neglected often turn sour, their unfulfilled desire corrupts and rots their mind, leaving them desperate and broken.
We can pass on generations of love, millions of years of evolution, through genetic chance, through the chaos of the universe. We have been given the ability to touch and feel love; is that not the most beautiful thing on earth? in the universe?
I can take you into my hands, I can put my arms around your waist; one on the small of your back, the other circling the back of your neck, I can hold you close so you may feel my heartbeat upon yours, and that can convey something that will mean more than a trillion 'I love yous' and a billion 'you're safes.'
By all means of logic, this should not exist; it shouldn't be possible to convey so much data, so much information, through such an austere form of communication. It simply surpasses the bounds of biological rule; it's not telpathy, it's not some secret language, it's just touch, and yet somehow, it's everything.
I crave nothing more in life than this feeling. I chase it every day, hoping to get the taste of it as I once did, and that journey will not end until I have it once more. Until it feels like how I felt in his arms.
Touch is beautiful
So are you.