Last December, Malorie asked me once, “If you could touch any inanimate object with your hands, what would it be?” and for the longest time, I thought about what it would be. I could touch anything with my hands if I wanted to, absolutely anything. There were barely any limits to what I couldn’t touch because there are inanimate objects all around us, and so I began thinking about it on a deeper scale. What if wanted to touch air? What if I wanted to touch hope, faith, fear, or courage? What if I wanted to clasp my hands so tightly around bravery that it became a part of me, a part of who I am? I would no longer shy back into my shell lined with self-doubt and worrisome troubles. I could say everything I needed to say, I could tell you all of the stories in my head without having that metallic taste of embarrassment lining the back of my throat for having said such ridiculous words. Even if those things aren’t necessarily inanimate objects themselves. And then, I thought for a second. The idea caught me almost immediately, nearly knocking me over. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it earlier. I would want to touch love. I thought about how it would feel in my hands - warm, soft, and pulsating, like a heart, but its shape wouldn’t be a heart, you know? It would be something less tangible than that. Perhaps it would be nothing more than but a ball of light; not too big, not too small, and it would be a light shade of pink. Predictable, but predictability doesn’t matter here. It would fill up your palms with the most radiant warmth, eventually washing over you and encapsulating your entire body, kissing your nose rosy, until you glowed a pale shade of pink, too, and then everyone would know you had been touched by love, that love was a part of you. There’s nothing more beautiful than feeling love.

I would want to touch love.

And because some people’s hearts love differently than others and sometimes you have to tiptoe around them in order to even gain a single sight of them and other times you can go head first, steadfast and burning like the ends of comet tails with no guarantee of whether you’ll stay aflame for long or simply fade away.

He said, “I understand mostly, but a home within a person?” I took a breath, racking my brain for an answer that could most easily be understood. “Home is supposed to be where you’re most comfortable and at ease. A person can be your home, too. Home doesn’t have to be just a place.” 

A boy once told me that my eyes are always sad the way dog eyes are sad. What I show to you is all I am. I’m not hiding anything. I’m no wolf in sheep’s clothing. Constantly waiting for the freight train of my brain to leave the platform, the rundown bus stop of my heart to load its passengers. All aboard. I’m tired of making small talk in coffee shops.