Velvet.

I brush my hands upon you, my tentacled fingers against you, bristling, in tight quadrants of tufted threads, woven, and claustrophobic. I brush my hands upon them, upon you, and absorb each individual strand. I ruffle you up, muss you, stir you, abrase you, awaken you. I make you stand on end, defying gravity and the weight of yourself and the weight of all this mess. Then I coax you from the opposite direction, flattening you, smoothing you, massaging, polishing, shining, cooling the surface of you, softening those bristly bristles. I like you each way that you are, from any angle. I like you sweet, and I like you bitter. I see you though I have never once seen you at all. Because I am you and you are me and we are all a part of everything, so distance and time mean absolutely nothing. I close my eyes and you are right here in front of me. I feel your warmth against me. I smell your pores, your essence, your you. And I grasp you within my ribs and keep you there always, because you belong in there always, and I promise I will always carry you gently upon this mushy, bloody, warm nest wherever I go. You are not lost. Ever.