touching him was always so important to me. it was something i lived for. i never could explain why. little, nothing touches. my fingers against his shoulder. the outsides of our thighs touching as we squeezed together n the bus. i couldn't explain it but i needed it. sometimes i imagined stitching all of our little touches together. how many hundreds of thousands of fingers brushing against each other does it take it make love? why does anyone ever make love?