Intimacy is found in silence.

Loneliness.

Longing.

Skin.

Lips.

Pink.

A mug of tea.

A book that stares back at you.

Anything that stares back at you.

Anything that will swallow you entirely.

A detail, maybe.

A black hole, maybe.

When flesh turns pale under pressure.

There is intimacy in hate.

And never speaking to someone again.

There is intimacy in admitting you’ve lost.

Intimacy is not pain.

But it is close.

Intimacy is in something sharp.

Teeth.

The line of your jaw.

God.

Blood.

Intimacy is plaster over bone.

It will crack.

Not now,

though.

There is intimacy in violence.

In hope.

In anything carnal.

There is intimacy in devouring.

Devotion.

Consumption.

There is intimacy in lies.

Love heals, but it is not everywhere (as they have bluffed).

Love is far away or back home (where you can’t go).

But intimacy,

intimacy is a freckle.

And a scar.