To bridge the gap between us, to close the distance of an arm's length and a mile of self-denial.

Gentle touch: an expression of love and affection, for me. When I touch you, you turn real. When you touch me, you appreciate my existence.

The hands of my parents: warm and gentle, if not raised in anger. Touching my arm to reassure me. Placing the outside of their fingers against my forehead to take away inner pain. Hugging me in great joy.

Anger and violence: not the business of their hands, at least not any more. They teach: we do not claim you with our hands. Touch is a gift, a sign of mutual love. 

Then I grew up and learned new lessons. And my hands turned calloused with the bitter knowledge of what else they could do. How they could hurt - in anger and in lust.

An intense distrust grew in me. Not of you, but of myself. If I touch you - where would I stop? Would I press on, seeking more of the pleasure? Would I claim you?

And what about you? Do you even like to be touched? Did the hands of your past treat you gently? Or did they leave you as damaged goods as well?

My hands feel alien in the gap between us. A schizophrenic feeling, to yearn to close the gap and to keep it as wide as possible. Attraction and repulsion, again and again.

I decided to keep my hands to myself. I will not bring discomfort upon you, as I will not bring shame upon me. It is better to yearn unfulfilled than to suffer fulfilled.

Even if the thought of never touching you hurts in my chest. Like a knife, cutting away one of the deepest expressions of my affection to you.

But maybe it is best for it to be gone. The gap is there for a reason, and I cannot stand bridging it. I do not trust myself to keep my control.

So, I stand still. I look at you and smile, maybe wave. I will not even shake your hand, if you do not offer. The gap is to be respected by me, and me alone.

If you touch me, it is intense. An electric shock, a short moment of weakness. A sign to me: I am loved. My entire body feels light, soft. The hole in my chest filled, for a second.

But it has to come unasked, unbidden, out of your own volition. As love should be given: never conditional, never under pressure. And my love is tainted with the knowledge of myself.

I try to substitute, sometimes. Running a hot shower, simulating your body heat. Hugging myself tight under the water, wishing to give to me what I deny myself. 

A weak substitute. Craving heroin, I give myself chocolate. Wishing emotional warmth, I hand myself physical warmth. A placebo at best, weak poison at worst.

And yet, - when I can't stand it any more, I break my own rules. I extend my arm, and I touch your shoulder. Allowing my fingertips to graze the fabric of your shirt.

Nothing more than that. A transgression of your bodily autonomy, for which I will apologize and expect punishment, in one form or another. 

And still, it means the world to me. I know that you are real. And that I wish to let you know: I am here as well, and I appreciate your company.

Please, I do not wish to harm.