To touch another,

oh, how I long to feel

his skin against mine,

if only to finally know

whether he is as smooth as silk

or as soft as velvet.

Then again,

I fear the day,

I hope it will be delayed,

when comes the time

that one thing leads to another

moving faster, faster, and faster

much too fast, yet so very slow.

The time when he is all I feel,

pressing against me entirely.

I fear the affecton, yes,

but more so the contact.

I am afraid of his touch;

I cringe away from the thought

as often as I lean into it.

I long for his hands to take mine,

to feel his fingers on my face, my neck, my spine.

Yet even his phantom graze,

the feeling of a feeling not yet felt,

makes me shy away and hide.

I pull my walls closer,

bolt the doors tighter.

Then I am alone again,

alone, and so terribly lonely.

You cannot truly miss

what you never really had,

but pining for it is all the worse,

a whole new misery.

How can I have such longing

and such terror at the same notion?

That yearning that I hold within,

certainly I could be brave for it, for him,

but that dark cloud of fear,

it makes me wary

of his kiss, his very touch.

What can I do but wait?

Perhaps with him it will be easy,

maybe I'll give him a chance,

but my guard is up,

and my defenses ready.

It shall not be me that proves unsteady.