Skin

He thought about skin. Obsessed, really.
He thought about its shadings and textures, its pores and incurvations, its blemishes and attritions. He considered the silkiness of a woman’s cambered hip, the blistered hemisphere of a man’s forehead; the skin in all its wetness, its hardness, its compulsion for same and different. It was all just skin, really, old and new, but as divergent as summer wheat and broom straw. His skin was brown, his mother’s white, but it came from the same integrity, the same soft yoke of cells.
And he wondered about the scarred things underneath the skin, the things no one was meant to see. He was convinced that a person’s heart had its own unique language, and very few would ever learn it, or want to.

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6 thoughts on “Skin

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