I trace the world under my fingertips,
seeking stories in every line,
from the roughened weave of jeans to the warmth of skin not quite mine.
Biting into the textures of life, a compulsive, insatiable need,
every surface a symphony, in every touch, I feed.
Walls whisper to my restless hands, fabrics murmur soft and low,
in the chaos of sensation, find the comfort I yearn to know.
I tap rhythms with my feet, speak in bursts too fast, too sharp,
in the silence between heartbeats, I’m searching for a spark.
Can’t sit still, I’m driven by a hunger deep within,
craving touch, craving sound, from the skin to the din.
In the rush of the world, I find my peace, my fight,
stillness feels like emptiness, only motion feels right.
I’m alive in the friction, in the dance of shadow and light,
every texture tells a story, in the day and into the night.
Seeking more than what meets the eye, beyond what people see,
it’s not distraction, it’s my way to feel, to breathe, to be.
Hear me in my tapping toes, see me in my shifting glance,
in every fidget lies a tale, in every squirm, there’s a dance.
I’m not lost, just wandering in a world rich and vast,
seeking sensations that build, that stir, that last.
So if you find me wandering, tapping, seeking what’s next,
understand it’s my nature, not a flaw, not a pretext.
In the fabric of the cosmos, in every thread, every seam,
I find my rhythm, my pulse, in the sensory stream.