Every touch between us is special and beautiful, but my favourite, is his kiss on my forehead. There is nothing that makes me feel so safe and secure--so completely protected--as this gesture of tenderness.
I also love when he runs a hand down my back to comfort me; it may seem minute, but this small action is immensely soothing to me. One night last weekend, I was thrashing around in bed because I couldn’t sleep. Apparently I was whining and talking nonsense—which I don’t remember. What I do remember, however, is the gentle motion of his hand along my back to calm me down.
There are so many touches between us; the rough touches of play, bear hugs, playful touches and tickles and even headlocks, loving touches of arms wrapped together, palms touching, fingers locked. Beyond the flesh wrapped around flesh, there’s the touch of lips and tongues, and the variant pressures of lying together, over each other. It’s all so wonderful, all so good. But it’s easier to remember and pay tribute the strong and unyielding sensations: the grip of his hands around my wrist and neck, his hand fisted in my hair and fingers gliding over sensitive areas, bringing moans of pleasure. Its easier to take for granted all the other touches that bind me to him.
It’s easier to miss the gentle brush across my cheek, or his arm around my waist, his hand running down my back, his lips upon my forehead. So now, I want to honour all the little touches that I delight in; those little touches, which show that I belong to him in so many ways and contexts and senses.