When We First Touched

When we first touched,

I couldn't feel the color of his skin.

I only felt the stain of warmth in his cheeks,

The gentleness around his eyes.

The line of his brow.

I felt the slight grooves of fine wrinkles.

My fingers grew obsessed with

the dips and curves of

his dimples,

his lips,

his smile.

My hands explored, my heart raced.

My nerves sung.

It was electrifying. He was beautiful.

Then he touched me.

...And I pulled away.

I couldn't bear his rejection.

But he gently reeled me back,

cradling my face.

He couldn't feel the color of my skin.

But he could feel the scars I bore.

The rigid skin,

puckered and ugly.

Tears tracked down my face.

He was perfect, and

I was broken.

But his calloused hands

caressed and

smoothed.

Wiped away my tears.

Each soft touch assuring me

that he wasn't running.

My fears began to ease.

Then he pressed his lips to each

tragic imperfection.

Love and lust in equal measure

writhed within me.

His lips found mine, and

I

was

lost.

When we first touched,

I knew–

he was the one.