Touch

As Frederich Sachs writes in The Sciences, "The first sense to ignite, touch is often the last to burn out: long after our eyes betray us, our hands remain faithful to the world...in describing such final departures, we often talk of losing touch."

- From The Natural History of the Senses by Diane Ackerman

"Do you prefer if we keep in touch?"

I frowned. I didn't know what she meant.

"I mean, when I leave."

Leave. Oh yes, that. Leave.

Funny. I never really thought about that. Not much, at least. Since the day I met her until the time I am writing this, the thought of her leaving and the thought of me staying here didn't even cross my mind, especially during times when we would ramble on and complain to the universe why we were given not enough time to enjoy each other's company some more. Yes, we always wanted more. We cannot get enough of each other, it seems. And we know it. We always have.

"Via email and Skype, of course. I will bug you to no end," she says while beaming her lovely pearly whites at me - the smile that launched this journey to uncharted regions.

At least for me.

"I know you will, the goof you are," I retort. "Just don't send anything weird via snail mail. Like a lock of your blonde hair or something. When your brown dye wears out. S'il vous plait?"

We laugh. Again, she smiles that deadly smile that hooked me. And my own smile muscles hurt. That simple smile which, she later confessed, launched her own journey to territories unknown.

Her pale, pierced lips go near mine, and she kisses my own.

"Mmm-hmm," is all she could utter.

Leave. Leaving. Her leaving. Yes, funny, I've never even thought of that. After six months of seeing each other as friends, as lovers, as confidantes, as best friends, as bosom buddies, what have you. But never as partners. Never as girlfriends. Never as anything official like that. Yes, we shunned homonormativity in this relationship. I've always wanted to do that, to have a relationship without any form of commitment but merely a strong understanding. I got that from her. She has been doing this kind of interaction for a while now, back in her home country, and we learn from each other every day, because of this. And more.

Yes, we like shunning any kind of normativity, I guess, the queer girls that we are - a label so problematic in her part of the world but not so used in my own part of the world. But we know it so, from studies, from living, from loving. Perhaps our celebration of diversity has brought us together in the first place, here, in my part of the world, where she found herself participating in a time-bound international program, working in the feminist nonprofit organization where I formerly worked - the organization which still hires me to engage in trainings every so often, the organization where she spent time fulfilling that program's duties. And thus, that was where it began for us - her as intern, me as workshop facilitator, and later us as feminist friends, then queer kindred spirits.

But now, she reminds me of our expiration date.

"Yeah sure, I'll keep in touch," I whispered, "...when you leave."

Even until now, after we've been all over each other, touching each other like there's no tomorrow, lapping up each other's essences as if that is the only nourishment for this bodily hunger we've been feeling all our lives, we always skipped that portion of talking about our end. All that mattered to us was each other's presence, each other's connection. Fingers to arms, lips to neck, tongue to bosom, palms to back, skin to skin, her pale Caucasian color to my fair Asian brown. Regardless of race, our countenance connects. More importantly, mind to mind, and soul to soul. Whatever we could reach, we sense. Whatever we could touch, we aim for. And whatever we could feel, we absorb. With zest. With life. With gusto. Yes, that hunger. Consummation. Consumption. Nourishment. We are that for each other.