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When first we fumbled our fingers together and gave in to the crashing collision our bodies had been aching for, I knew there was something special about us.

Then I grew to know you and my skin evolved to melt when touched by your fingers. My muscles relax, my bones yield, and my nerves heighten to the provision of pleasure afforded by your hands.

Through a thousand departures and reunions, my frame has bent and arched to become your homecoming trellis. Beneath my boughs, you stride time and again and in my shelter you drop your shield and armor, undressing into the safety of our communion.

I recall one particular morning where first we sat across the table from one another. Before long we fell into bed amidst a morning glow ordinarily relegated to the dealings of angels. You wrapped around me like ivy on oak and I felt your surrender wash over every inch of me. Moments and years later, we found ourselves beneath the downpour of a steaming showerhead, our fingers working meticulously to caress soap into every crevasse and dislodge the sticky mess of hapless heartbreak.

I used to think that home was a feeling, but I’ve come to know it more as the physical destination defined by the precise positioning of your hands in my universe.

When we drive through the mountains and your hand finds the nape of my neck, our truck becomes a ship adrift on an ancient sea, searching once and always for some forlorn shoreline upon which we can drop anchor and build a life.

Somehow with your fingers intertwined in my hair, worlds of possibility are revealed and the boundaries of my belief are dissolved into the dotted outlines of what we might create together. Could it be that anything is possible? Could your touch be the elixir I’ve been working toward in my alchemist’s laboratory?

I want you to touch me. I want your body against mine in the early light of autumn and still, as the buds break their silence atop eager, stretching branches. Make love to me with rain on our windows as spring wages rebellion on winter’s stronghold. Kiss me in the heat of summer with lips that taste like whiskey and lake water and melt into me as my fingers whisper sweetness into your salty, sun-drenched skin.

I could never get enough of touching you. I could spend eternities navigating the exquisite wilderness of you, and still, on the millionth morning, find some timeless, undiscovered treasure. And the same proclamation stands for your body on mine. With each cell I shed in my fateful, relentless march toward death, I am born anew such that your skin will always thrill me as thoroughly as it did the first time.

Where did you come from? And how did you find me? What beacon called you to my realm and what flare drew you into my home? Did you hear my call, my song, my verse? Did you see the fire in my eyes and hunger for it as I did yours? Or do you find yourself as perplexed and mesmerized by our uncommon magnetism as I?

I’ve tried for years to find a truth outside of us, but all I’ve discovered is that my heart does not exist if not for loving you. I’m tired of searching. I’ve tried in vain to understand some landscape of joy devoid of your silhouette. Your love transforms my fear and apprehension into courage and faith.

So kiss me. Explore my skin. Slide your fingers beneath the creases in my armor and undress my guardedness. Touch me. Take me home.