I realize in moments of immense solitude how the touch is such a huge deal. I crave for any contact that will electrify my fingertips just a little bit. That hole in my coat’s pocket. That chestnut I carry in that same pocket: it has a little crack that I like to brush with my thumb. The grass I caress every single time on my way back to my cousin’s place. The way I’m braiding my scarf, or nervously grabbing my bracelets.