You know what I would like to do?

I’ve been wondering how to translate all the little sparks of physical intimacy to the anemic immateriality of the virtual plane, how to give shape to emotions and desires using nothing nothing but words and the desperately creative power of our mirror neurons. How do you vocalize a touch? How do you write down the shy blooming of a smile?

You know what I would like to do to you? I would like to fill a bath with warm, scented, soapy water and have us gingerly step into the bubbles. I’d sit there, right opposite of you, and pour cascades of warm water on your shoulders and lather your arms with soap and put handfuls of foam on your head and laugh like a kid and kiss the tip of your nose. And you’d be all flustered, but happy and relaxed, shivering with pleasure from the changes of temperature as the warm water caressed your back. And I’d crack open a box of candied violets - this delicacy that can’t ever be found in Texas - on the bath shelf, and lean over the side to eat them, all the while talking about some obscure TV shows and literary critiques - and you’d just sit there, leaning back, content, marveling at this new normal; feeling the stress of your family and your past melt into the distance.

It’d taste like a candied violet does - powdery and childlike and festive and elevated and... inaccessible.