Intimacy is found in the juvenile.

A tender graze of scathed knees fills my leg with a fluttering fascination.

The only moment I regard is when our legs touch,

Unmoved and unnerved by the gravel piling besides me,

Or the adhesive bandages that will make their way into my purse.

Intimacy is found in a bitter life.

When the soft, pink skin of his lips morph to form cruel jokes,

Painful observations,

A detesting remark,

The corners of my mouth lift, gently,

Knowing his lips,

Soaked with the sweet nectar of a bitter fruit, 

Entrust mine to advise me of the greatest secret of being alive–

Despising every moment of it. 

Intimacy is aging,

When my hopeful eyes deepen into something more sinister,

With the wisdom of ages,

But the joys of none.

When my girlhood has been wasted away,

Into nothing more than a silhouette in the snow.

When my birthday wishes are shared with an empty sky,

A hand will be grasped through the darkness.

Intimacy is remembering,

Seeking for nostalgia to hold you when your mother meets you with closed arms.

Hoping to see time remove the barbarian in you,

But alas,

We are animals.

We are thankless,

Every year we recall,

Claiming with clenched fists that the past year was the worst one,

That we live such pitiful lives.

Every year we say the worst year,

The most cruel year,

Is the one we survived.

We only will begin to live when we see that life is devastation by design.

I bond with the unwillingness to proceed.

Intimacy is all things coming to an end,

For death must be a beautiful thing if we spend each aching moment

Hoping, 

Praying, 

Waiting,

For the day we slip into the oasis between light and shadow,

And finally reach it. 

In this case, it must be wonderful.