senses

I have a theory about my senses. Stretching them. Flexing them. Using them to discern tiny sensations.
Like an exercises at bedtime I practise.
I hold this cup in my palm, it's warm curve nestles against me, even slight movements against it sound the high rustling tinkle of skin against glaze. I run my toes over the blanket, exploring the curves and folds, enjoying the slight prickle of wool, the friction arresting the slide of the soft pads of my feet, impeding their journey across the mattress. The cover of my book is cool and hard under my fingertips. Running my fingers over the surface I realise that that whilst it is so smooth it is also matte, and like microscopic velvet it gives me shivers.

I concentrate on gathering sensations and think of you. I know that when I have my moment with you, that is to say, when we next steal a moment together, though our time will be short (it could never be long enough) I will be practised in appreciating sensations. Each tiny brush of skin on skin, each breath that stirs the tiny hairs on my body, every inhalation will fill my consciousness, every touch will resonate my soul...