A Phone Call Just Won't Do

When I tell them about my pain, my grief, my not wanting to live,
They worry.
Might she take her life? Is it that bad?
They say, Call me anytime. Day or night. I'm here. I'll listen.

Well, that won't do.
It just won't do.
If you knew, you'd know what a phone call lacks.
Touch.

I don't need an ear 3,000 miles or even 2 feet away.
No, I need an ear here.
Close. Connected to a body. Right next to me.
Touchable in physical reality.

I've not had physical intimacy for near 3 years.
Not sex, which has been absent even longer;
But touch. Human, intimate touch.

Hugs help, but they're much too brief. Even long,
heartfelt bring each other in hugs. Still too brief.
Charlestown Rhode Island, summer of 2007, lying next to Lydia,
close, listening to her story of how she opened her heart to Lizi.
This was good; it helped greatly; but still lacked intimate touch.

Holding a face, a body, a hand, a foot, for long minutes, even hours.
Skin to skin. The exchange of comfort. The feel of another's skin.
The give and take of shared time and space.
Shared here and now.
Holding. Touch. Physical intimacy.
Babies die without it.
Adults too?