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Taste
Most become entrapped by the blues and greens reflected off of my irises, distracted by the reds in my blemished skin, or intrigued by shadows of intricate texture and shape created by angles of bended light around my face. The taste of a hello challenges my response, the vibration of which stimulates mutuality. They rely on the grip of my fingertips into the palms of their handshake, or the elbows of a greeting around our waists to secure the lock on a universal rule of stimuli; that their senses confirm my existence.
You see me and you look directly into the blacks of my pupils, as if there is no color more beautiful than one that absorbs all wavelengths and refuses to let them go. Our senses fail, and within the darkness, we need nothing more to communicate. The strength of our bond is a rare one that goes beyond the concrete laws of wavelengths and spectrums to a place where humans are forbidden. Our bodies are not made capable to see what lies in the blackness of our eyes, feel what touches the paralysis of our souls, or taste the air that keeps us alive, but you and I have left our skins, even if only for a breath.
