My obsession with your touch is like the sediments in bottled water.
It hibernates peacefully, deep down in the gallows of my skin, until a whirlpool of events ruffles its composure, churning the fragments of you out of their sleep.
I feel them climb to the surface of my skin, with the most unstable steps.
I taste the bitter havoc that they spill.
For an hour. For a day. For a week. Until they fall back into a slumbering memory.
Each time this tiered process takes longer than usual, causing me more pain than most times, I indulge myself in a game.
I shake a bottle of water, on and on, heavily and then heavier.
The peaceful pause in the water shreds into a thousand pieces.
And I watch the sediments on the floor of the bottle, pushing themselves to the top, leaving the water baffled for some time.
Then much like a spent up force, they fall back to the bottom of the bottle. The sediments retreating at to the core of the bottle, appears to me like some unpronounced prophecy, assuring me that these moments of discomfort are a phase in its passing.