a life less ordinary, please

I can’t get that feeling out of my head. Having a shoulder to press my face against—to muffle incited laughter, or to wet with shed tears. A strong shoulder, the steady warmth of bone underneath flesh underneath skin. That kind of tangible assurance and comfort, the kind that can only be validated by something so gloriously intangible that most people are reduced to writing putrid poetry about it. It doesn’t have a particular face, this feeling. It’s something quiet and ghostly, some meek and gray mewling thing quivering inside of me. I want to wrench it out. I want to yank it out and smash it until its figurative flesh tears and its abstract body breaks.

It’s so juvenile.