The earth’s calluses collide with our footsteps.
Coarse tissue torn by time. Rebuilt and rendered.

I grab your hand.
Your calluses collide with my softness.

It’s kinda funny, the way nature protects itself.
It’s kinda funny that after all this time, and after all this blood spilled, I’m more raw than ever.

You touch me gently, but also with such passion that I’m afraid your calluses may burn off your fingertips.

My skin is far from sharp, but it is far from cold.

Sometimes, I want to touch your tissue, the stuff under all those layers. Just to say I was there.

I’m selfishly hoping you soften. Hoping you leave yourself vulnerable.

You take my hand.

I grip like a chain.

I want to be touched but don’t want to feel the weight of hands.

The pressure of temporality.

But when those celestial, organic eyes find me—
nocturnal tombstones with strokes of gold—
I can’t help but fight for you.

I press your calluses into the skyline between my lips.
Hugged by blue and green. Vast and unforgivingly human.

I break.
I crave.
I long.

For you.

Even if it hurts me.
Loving you is in me.

It’s as if Mother Nature herself designed me to cherish you.