It has been a long time since I have been close to someone in the way that I could touch them whenever I wanted. I forget the sensation of touch, the intimacy of being inside-out with another person. A few weeks ago as I rode my daily commute on the bus, a young man sat down on the plush micro-fiber seat next to me. With so many people jammed together in the vehicle like cattle, our limbs were pressed up next to each other. He wasn’t aware, but this rare moment of skin to skin contact from elbow to thigh both thrilled and excited me. I wondered how long it had been since I had been held, hugged, or even offered a handshake. All at once I became overwhelmed with the sadness of it all, the fact that he could sit absent-mindedly next to me while my heart became flooded. I thought I might give it away then, and my ribcage, like a dam, would break to pieces while I burst and melted into the carbon fibers. I hardly noticed when my stop arrived, and solemnly walked into my home, dropped my bag and considered crying; but I wouldn’t allow myself the luxury.