storing the senses

a taxonomy of intimacy

Memory is ever-dwindling. So tell me, where do I store this bliss?

Where do I put the stuff that sends my senses into ethers?

How do I transmit in sentences the things that feel ineffable?

I suppose I’m not supposed to… but I’m still going to try.

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i. gaze

We lay together, in my bed, in the dark, just before drifting off. My nightly ritual begins: I pinch my contact lenses out of my eyes and toss them away, letting them fall and dry up somewhere unknown onto the dark void of the floor.

When I turn my head to look at you, I see a precious blur beside me. Your eyes are closed as I squint, attempting to make out the shapes in your expression; I see you’re smiling. Bliss settles on your lips like the sleep that’s soon to come.

Restless, relentless in the gaze I maintain, I begin mentally listing off all of the other kinds of gazes I’ve held before your face:

1. the look of innocence, where all features soften into an unconditional forgiveness—the way we often look at children.

2. the narrow gaze of prediction: that small gesture of suspicion, hinting toward some unspoken desire or wish (give me a kiss; let’s get out of here; i want a cigarette)

3. the intrigued eyes that simply watch: equal parts detached and entranced. observant and unforced. a grateful witness, just glad to be present.

4. the mirrored image in someone else’s pupil, and seeing yourself be swallowed in it, as it expands. that manifest way of seeing yourself in someone else: a literal reflection.

5. the all knowing, uncomfortable look that lies beyond the impulse to cut away: where to be seen is to be implicated. put face to face with another human’s truth. “I see you”

ii. touch

Sometimes, your body makes contact with mine in a way that is so gentle that I want to cry. Under your thumb, it’s such a relief to know that touch like this exists, that regard can be a felt tenderness.

You kiss my hands as if thankful for every finger, devotional down to the nail.

I make my engravings with these hands. I write secret messages into your skin, tracing patterns across your plains and valleys. I dig wordless confessions into the top layer of your epidermis, hoping you receive them.

Because there are types of touches, too. I’ve shared them all with you:

1. the anticipatory, almost not-touching touch. the intimacy of residual body heat, sensing the nearness of another’s heartbeat-hum. the invasive act of tickling lives on the opposite end of this same spectrum—where sensation is so strong (or in the former case, so subtle) that it borders on being unbearable. a kind of jouissance: producing overwhelm in either direction.

2. the exploratory, handsy hands that move with urgency, as if the skin beneath them is slipping away. fingers gripping, sliding, squeezing, gliding with a desperation that can’t be tamed. ripe and ready to be satiated.

3. the tender-all-over touch that’s kind of meaty. where you really feel the flesh, and the texture of the tissue underneath. it’s that let me get inside there with you kind of thing: viscous and human.

4. the steady hold of stable arms that prop up the body and let you feel relieved of the full weight of your own responsibility. a trusting, lasting touch that makes an existential imprint of stability. muscle memory that goes far beyond the body.

5. that of the intentional hand, which applies pleasure and pressure with a calculated placement, as a transmutation of care. a way to achieve embodiment through another, and find presence in the act of giving, with vigor.

iii. scent

I used to hate cigarette stench until I smelled it on you. I’ve made other lovers wash their hands after smoking many times, but I let you sleep in my bed reeking every night.

You don’t always smell like this, though. Your skin beholds other scents. I’ve made note of the notes in them:

1. the first whiff, often followed by the first kiss. a wave that hits you with a dose of sweet relief right there in the doorway and almost knocks the wind out of you entirely. a brief high.

2. the pure, neutral inhalation of a near-nothing smell: one you can only enjoy when you’re both fresh out of the shower. sharing a towel that adds a hint of detergent into the mix.

3. the subtle, musky perfume of a lover’s pheromones. the BO you don’t mind, and might even grow to like.

4. end of the night breath: alcohol and an underlying fruity flavor, maybe. top note of smoke. easy to ignore in someone else if you’ve got coated on your own teeth, too.

5. the remnant scent left behind in borrowed clothes. an indulgence that can last for days, or however long it takes until the item is returned. something to revel in, in the meantime, taking whiffs like hits of morphine.

iv. listening

I fiddle with your earlobe: innocence pinched between my fingers. A poem writes itself in my head as I do this, and I whisper the words to myself out loud. The stanzas dance under my breath, but secretly, I hope that you’re eavesdropping. Listening, somehow. Like this:

1. with curious ears, eager to learn and hanging on to every word. ensnared by a content-driven anticipation, at the mercy of a speaker’s pace to reveal information.

2. with all the messages going over the head, focused on something else. dissociative and spacey, assuming that the subconscious will at least absorb the shape of the sounds at the lack of active presence.

3. with reverence for someone else’s enthusiasm. attentive and entranced by their passion, admiring the delivery more than the words themselves.

4. with an inward listening, considering everything said in relation to your own inner monologue

5. with a single pointed focus, anchored in breath. pure awareness with none of your own thoughts or interjections.

v. kissing

We communicate through a kiss the thing we’re both thinking. There is no use saying words like I love you when our mouths can do it differently, still moving.

Kinds of kisses exist:

1. short and sweet. an impulse you can’t help but express— even if quickly, barely, briefly. something done less for the sensation and more for what it represents.

2. the nervous kiss, when you’re still getting the hang of it. learning to navigate another’s rhythm.

3. slow and indulgent, as if eating each other for dessert. the teasing, almost restrained make-out when you’re both trying to see how long you can take it.

4. just two animals gnawing at the barriers between them: clothes and consciousness. consuming each other with teeth clashing, mouths drooling carnal desire. a nearly unpalatable passion.

5. the wrestling match of two mouths exploring just for fun. something you can only do once you’re really comfortable: holding on to someone’s tongue, trying to feel behind their teeth, screaming inside their cheeks.

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In the end, the iterations are so many that they are all eventually forgotten—until felt again. What is left behind and codified are just vessels for the greater truths they symbolize: a futile phenomenology of what it feels like to be alive.