Tingles.

It's the tingles that get me, everytime.

Little electric sparks run up and down my spine every time my phone buzzes after 9 pm.
It's those tingles. A live wire runs down the middle of every vein, making the very cells in my blood pulse a rhythm counterpoint to the bass of the heart. Yes, those tingles. I adore those tingles.

That there is no shock when my fingers graze your skin is a source of wonder. Perhaps it merely means I spend too much time letting fingertips wander over the contours of your bones, those solid pieces of calcified tissue lying under the surface, stretching skin into shapes that can only be learned by touch.

I want to learn.

I think I've learned your jaw. I think I realized last night that my fingertips anticipate the curves and muscles, the stretches and the flexes. I think I could trace your jaw in the air even if you weren't in front of me.

Time to move on, lower. Collarbones and shoulders, and then biceps, elbows, forearms. After that, the chest, with its pectoral plates. And on and on, memorizing each bit with tingling fingertips.