By Nicole Zelniker

Touch is the spark that runs from timid finger

tip to shivering shoulder, atoms in empty

space, a race to a literal nothing between


everything: a shock sends shutters from

scalp to shins and back again. Each night, we

carve out our hearts and let our chests


bleed, press our organs together before we

sleep, lost in the maze of our own minds.

We wait for skin to stick and blue blooded


veins to tie themselves in knots like

shoelace strings, a world where

atoms touch and we don’t wake each day




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