In every new touch there is the memory of another touch left behind. How can one's skin not remember the first time it was possessed entirely by a sang-froid finger brushing against it: precise, unintended, erotic, scarring? That first touch has burned and seared itself into the memory; a willful branding, begged for silently in a moment of passion.
Every new touch contains its own stigma: fear. The fear that it cannot be unfelt; it can never be undone. That on nights long and dark, the touch will rise once more and force back into memory that which can no longer be had. A certainty that no other touch will ever feel as good. And that the feeling cannot be sustained. In the end, this memory of touch will be all there is, and there is some part of the soul that knows it will be left emptier for ever having felt it.
And the mind begs the body to turn away, to save itself. But the body knows no sensibilty, only sensuality. It begs to be branded, just so. Possessed.