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To touch to touch is all there is, all there ever was. Yet we are made af raid, distrust what is most to us, spend so much of what could have been love, constructing an excuse for it, some permissible context, some name, until what is love is not love is no longer even rememberable, not song, but more like a dove sound, like that, that pressing of air on the throat. And we are smothered by it, are too much alone. Our song is skin, we must sing, must touch, it is time. -