unspoken

There is a voice scolding me, crying for me to put the pen down and feel. It tells me to write emotions in solitude, not now. Warm dream-hands grab my face and tell me to live and feel and think and thrive. They take my hand and lift it and jolt me from this coma-like trance of distance. You must feel this soft, quick pulse in our embrace. Your hand feels my right knee, and I marvel at its size, as if it is some giant’s fingers reaching down to my frail body and attempting to understand what it is to be human. I suppose that’s how you make me feel after all, as if I am the giant, and I much admire you for that, because no one else has ever allowed me to feel so human before.