Touch

My roommate once wrote a poem

and said their prose came from

feeling touch starved.

And I’ve been thinking of

the poem ever since. I’ve been

thinking of the last time someone

touched me.

It hasn’t been long, actually.

But I’ve shed enough skin

cells that my arms have

never been held by someone

who loved me. Who never meant

to use me. And how can I blame the

people who do when

we’re all coping with being alone—

nearly dying alone.

Gabrielle Crone