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I was asked today, out of the five senses, which would I live without.

Damn, those stupid questions. Really, they are a pain in the ass.

The person I was with responded with touch because she wouldn’t mind living without the feeling of people or bodily functions. I suppose that’s good for some… but not for me.

See, I am a touchy person. I like the feeling when my hair touches my shoulders as someone rubs them gently to release the tension building from my hard work. I like the simple tap on the shoulder of a friend or acquaintance or “Ma’am, you stole my shopping cart.” I like the passion and lustful kisses in vigor and without grace as they tingle the feeling below the sacred place. The flower between my legs burns when your finger brushes my lips to quiet my thoughts. Everything shuts down and I feel my heart thump.

I could never give up smell for, whenever I smell your cologne off an unfamiliar soul or at the counter at Macy’s, I remember the baseball games we would go to where you would yell at the Umpire for a shitty call. I smell the scent where your sweat left on my pillow the night you were too drunk to drive home and too poor for a cab. Then there are the bad smells like that time I tried to serve you pork on your 25th birthday only to burn it so severely, we had to evacuate my apartment. The time your dog left a little pop present in your yard and I casually stepped in it while horsing around with you on that summer day. No, I couldn’t give up smell either.

Taste? Well, that’s a vulgar one to say the least. I would miss the taste of your lips on mine as your tongue which tasted of cigarettes and ole’ man peppermint and it tingles my pours. The taste of sushi or my first alcoholic drink at the age of 16. I thought I was so bad ass sneaking out of my house to drink a few 40s at the party for whose-his-face-who-dated-her. The taste of too much tequila and not enough water as we lose ourselves on the dance floor. The taste of the salt of your skin during that time I won’t mention because I’m afraid of who is reading this. No, not taste either.

Could I go without hearing? No. I couldn’t. See, I would miss the sweetness of Grams’ old stories about how she was a biology professor and how Gramps fell in love with her as a student. Or, I would not hear the cat purring when I wasn’t pissing him off, which I always seemed to do. I wouldn’t hear the beats that convulse out of the speakers or that first time I hear myself sing. I was 10 and auditioned for a part in the play at church. I was later cast as “Chorus,” although, I never really sang any chorus. Of course, I would never give up hearing as piano is my favorite of all instruments as I can play out my feelings using fourths and fifths and inverted seconds dotted half notes. I am the master and the sound is my bitch. 

Lastly, there is sight. Well, I would miss the sunsets and sunrises like that one where we never came back for curfew our freshman year. Or the sunrise on Mt. Bromo in Indonesia, the day I realized I would never settle for anything or any man. I would miss the sight of water in the summer, winter, day, and night. I would miss the fall, when all the leaves change reminding us all that change is inevitable and cannot be stopped. I would miss your face as I watch you leave for the last time before I left for Camp that summer… how you told me you loved me and kissed me goodbye. Later, my eyes would torture me as I saw you tagged in a facebook photo kissing someone ELSE. Your explanation was one I didn’t want to hear. But I heard it. I saw it. And it killed me.

A thousand pictures could never hold the pain my eyes have seen….

But, I wouldn’t trade what I’ve seen for anything, for I am using my eyes as we speak to edit myself and to watch my cat search for “more, please,” but returning empty-handed.

Me, too, buddy. Me. Too.

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