It is always electric, even in memory, the static charge of
fingers against flesh, when each comes into contact, the energy running down
from fingers to toes, where I tough, stirring up that power plant that needs no
incentive to spring to life, it is as potent as a nuclear reaction, the lips
that touch lips, the hips that rub hips, chest to chest, an atomic dance that
shakes me long after the meltdown as gone, a charge stored up inside me as if I
am a battered, sparking at each imagined interaction, suppressed at great
effort to keep me from imploding again, even if only in my mind.
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