So according to wordpress, I registered neihathinksthis three years ago today. Which seems like a very long time considering I’ve only been regularly blogging here for like…a year and a half.
But time flies and today is still a pretty momentous (hah) occasion, so in honor of that I’m going to put up a piece I wrote last night while listening to Janelle Monae. I was tired, I was worried about my French exam, and it was dark, which is a recipe for silly prose.
Agape
What they never mention about love is the way it concentrates itself in your finger tips.
It tingles; a soft vibration, a warmth in your heart, a flutter in your chest and in your belly, urging you to press your finger tips against skin and share your affection. The pads of your fingers caress, stroke, love in a way your heart cannot do itself. It works as an extension of that organ in your body that generates lukewarm waves of adoration.
Your fingers adjust. Preen. You smile with and frown with the valleys of your finger tips, and the little tributaries part from their river to carry silt downstream to your beloved.
It doesn’t matter what beloved means, or who your beloved is. A friend, your family, the object of your blushes and sighs – the love spreads even regardless, it spreads thick, it spreads laden with sincerity no matter who you’re touching. Your nails shy away from inflicting even the barest of pain but sometimes mistakes happen and your fingers curl away in horror, pulling back the love like a whip. In your mind, the love turns cruel and wicked in that moment, but I promise you that even the darkest niches of agape are lit up in response to that soft chuckle and reassurance of, “It’s nothing” you will almost undoubtedly receive.
So you trace a smile, but keep your love over your chest for now. It huddles beneath your breast, whispering and murmuring, waiting to be let back towards the warmth that is your beloved.
Love, for you, thrives on that sense of touch. The proximity keeps the warmth strong, and the waters of your affection continue flowing downstream, leaving mists that nuzzle, and soft, cool kisses.
You sigh. You press your fingers to your cheek, relishing in the adoration you feel so strongly towards your dearest, and close your eyes.
For all you rely on your senses, perhaps losing your sense of touch would hurt the most – your sense of love would die with it.
The thought makes you ache and you brush the thought away. You rub your finger tips together. You listen to them giggle softly and you smile to yourself.
The sense of love runs strong, runs true, and little can stem that so long as you keep your touch alive.
Neiha Lasharie 