He exists in the paradox of touch,
A hunger deep and vast,
For every contact, a substantial shift,
Stars realigning in the aftermath of his might.

He is the child of the sun, burnt by its caress,
Every touch imprints on him, a bittersweet distress.
He weeps not for the pain, but for the beauty lost in the blaze,
A reminder of his curse, in the sun’s vindictive gaze.

Defined by touch, he remembers each one,
A catalogue of sensations, never undone.
He loathes it, this craving that consumes his core,
A tempest of longing for something more.

He is a galaxy spiraling apart,
Fragments of self, seeking a start.
Touch is the gravity that binds him whole,
A collision of stars, a merging of all.

The mere tracing of a collarbone,
Can dissolve his ego.
In this act, he finds release,
A moment of peace, in the destruction, a cease.

Be it the river, the kiss of snow,
Or the grasp of rain—all touches he will know.
For any contact he yearns,
In any touch, a universe turns.

So he wanders, a contradiction of need and fear,
A being of contact, drawing ever near.
To the core of all his strife,
For touch is the pain, the love, the life.